Interval of Shadow
by Caramel Machete
Summary: Nightwing, Robin and Red Robin take on Clayface. Nightwing does not emerge unscathed. Is this the end of Nightwing's career? How will the rest of family react? Will Dick recover, and what should he do if he can't?
1. Roll of Fate

Clayface lumbered towards Red Robin down a dingy blind alley. Red Robin dodged and then vaulted over the monster's shoulder. "Any time now!" he shouted into his comm.

Robin and Nightwing had been halfway through a normal patrol when an emergency call from Red Robin alerted them that Clayface was rampaging through downtown Gotham, so they immediately diverted to help.

"On our way!" Nightwing responded as he and Robin landed on a fire escape. Nightwing paused to fire up the electrical current in his escrima sticks, then said "Robin, you and Red distract him from the front, and I'll shock him from behind."

Robin nodded and swung down to street level and kicked a wooden crate towards the villain. "Over here!"

Red Robin twirled his bow staff. "Don't forget about me so soon! We aren't done!"

In the brief moment that Clayface paused, looking between the two heroes, Nightwing flung himself off of the fire escape and onto the giant's back. He jabbed his escrima sticks into either side of Clayface's massive neck. Clayface roared in fury and pain, and split himself in half, starting from the head down. Nightwing vaulted off before he lost his perch, somersaulting twice before landing a few yards behind the monster.

As Clayface reformed, Robin threw two explosive batarangs at him. The small blasts were just powerful enough to distract Clayface from Nightwing, and the giant growled and swung an arm towards Robin, his hand forming into a mallet. Robin rolled left as Red Robin threw his own batarangs at Clayface.

Nightwing jumped onto the brute again. Robin darted forward, drawing his sword, and severed one of Clayface's hands. The monster roared, even as the clay from the fallen hand oozed towards one giant foot and was reabsorbed with a squelch. Clayface rippled, formed a third arm and grabbed Nightwing's leg. The extra arm extended, stretched and thinned, whipping Nightwing off and slamming him into a wall.

Robin yelled in fury at the crash his brother's body made and threw more batarangs at the monster. Red Robin sprinted forward, striking repeatedly with his staff and then dancing away, as Robin prepared a taser. Clayface ignored the fallen vigilante as he followed the other two. Robin tried to look around the hulking form to see if Nightwing was moving, but before he could tell for sure, he caught a blur of movement and had to lurch to one side inelegantly. He managed to slice off a couple of fingers, which bought him enough time to fire his taser with his other hand.

"Get your head back in the game!" Red Robin admonished. "Keep him away from 'Wing."

Just the two of them taking on Clayface without advanced preparation was going to be a challenge. If they had known they would be facing that particular villain, they would have armed themselves with more sonic grenades and solvents. As it was, the only thing they carried in their normal arsenal that could disrupt him was tasers. Everything else was merely an annoyance to the mud monster.

"Perhaps we should call Batman," Robin admitted reluctantly. As far as he could tell, Nightwing was still down.

"Agreed." Red touched his communicator and Robin felt relief that he wouldn't have to be the one to make the call to Father. Even after all of this time, he hated asking for help from Batman. If Nightwing wasn't injured, he wouldn't even consider it.

Robin sliced through a massive muddy leg then flipped over Clayface to hack at the back of his other leg.

"Stay still!" Clayface rumbled, swinging his fists wildly. Robin continued to slash and weave until Red rejoined the fight, the call to Batman completed. As Red Robin took up the offensive, Robin glanced back to Nightwing, relieved to see the older hero slowly pushing himself into a sitting position against the wall. Relieved purely from a tactical standpoint, of course. Three fighters were better than two. He hacked off a few more wads of clay and Red fired his own taser. Clayface backed further away from Nightwing under the onslaught. Robin threw a couple more exploding batarangs, vaulted back over the monster so that he could see Nightwing more easily. He was dismayed when Nightwing swayed as he tried to step away from the wall. Robin watched his brother collapse back against the wall.

"'Wing is up but not really moving," Robin reported. "We need to buy more time."

"Got it." Red Robin threw a bolas around Clayface's legs. The monster stumbled, even as his muddy flesh oozed around the cords, so Robin took the opportunity to hurl a batarang into Clayface's open mouth. The earth-like body pulsed with the effort of containing the blast, and Clayface staggered and slowed.

"Robin, Red - force him back to me!" Robin heard Nightwing yell. His brother was up and wanted back in the fight! He didn't get a chance to dwell on it though, as he had to dodge a brick thrown by Clayface.

"Working on it!" Robin shouted. Red Robin glanced at Robin, both nodded, and they moved in concert to herd the villain back towards the alley wall. Robin saw Nightwing light up a single escrima stick - he must have lost the other one from the impact - and tense himself to rejoin the fight, even as he kept one hand braced against the wall.

"On my count, use everything you've got!" Nightwing ordered when Clayface was just a yard in front of him. "One, two, three, NOW!"

Nightwing used the wall to leverage himself up onto Clayface's back and shoved the escrima stick deep into the muddy flesh where the beast's neck and shoulder joined. Robin fired his taser just as Red Robin fired his, and the jolts of electricity from three different sources finally had Clayface crashing to the ground. Nightwing half fell/half jumped off of the monster's back and staggered a couple of steps away, before collapsing once more to the ground.

"Give me your taser and go to 'Wing. I'll keep mudhead down," Red Robin said.

Robin rushed to Nightwing's side, telling himself that his alacrity was purely for reasons of efficiency and not because he was worried about his brother. He dropped to his knees beside Nightwing, who was sprawled on his stomach, head turned to one side. Robin called up the biometric readings from Nightwing's suit on his gauntlet's holo computer. His breathing rate was lower than normal, and his pulse was weak and slow.

"Nightwing? Are you with me?" Robin asked, but received no response. Robin pressed the button on Nightwing's domino mask that retracted the white-out lenses, and pried open his eyelid. The pupil was dilated, but Robin couldn't check the other eye without moving Nightwing.

"Batman is five minutes out," Red Robin reported. "How is Nightwing?"

"Unconscious. Signs of head injury."

"Don't move him."

"I know!" Robin snapped.

Robin didn't need the reminder, but felt useless nonetheless. He eased his hand under Nightwing's - Grayson's - and gripped it softly.

"Nightwing, Batman is on his way. Clayface is down. You can wake up now."

Robin counted Grayson's heartbeats and watched for any change. After Robin reached to a count of thirtyseven, Grayson stirred, slightly enough that if Robin hadn't been watching alertly, he would have missed it. Robin felt a small squeeze on his hand.

"Nightwing," Robin breathed. Grayson's one visible eye fluttered open, then closed again.

"Clayface?"

"Neutralized for now. Batman is on his way with liquid nitrogen, and Red Robin keeps shocking him when he tries to reform."

Grayson tried to push himself up, but Damian laid a hand on his shoulder. "Don't try to move; you might have spinal cord damage."

Damian felt Grayson squeeze his hand again, but Grayson stopped trying to get up. "Not my spine, it's my head. I just wiggled my toes."

Damian exhaled loudly, what would have been a sigh of relief in any one else. "Good, you can move. But stay down, you idiot. You hit that wall pretty hard."

They stayed silent for a moment, then Grayson opened his eyes again. Damian adjusted his position so that Grayson could look at him, ducking his face closer to his brother.

"Robin?"

"Yes?"

"I can't see."

Damian may have gasped, but he stifled it immediately. He responded, "It's okay. I'm right here."


	2. Thorns

Thorns

"It's okay. I'm right here," Damian said, and Dick felt so grateful that Damian sounded calm and collected. Dick closed his eyes, though his perception of shifting darkness and moving grey and black shapes didn't change. Dick felt calm too, mostly, compartmentalizing any rising panic into a box, shoving the box to one side, promising 'later' as he locked it.

Even though he was lying down, not moving at all, Dick felt a spinning sensation, as if the alley itself was whirling slowly underneath him. Pain spiked up from the nape of his neck across his skull and down his spine, throbbing with each beat of his heart. He gripped Damian's hand tighter, told himself to concentrate on breathing, in two three four, hold two three, out two three four, and slowly he was able to step away from the pain enough to speak again.

"What happened to . . . Clayface?" he asked, and his voice sounded breathy even to his own ears.

"Dealt with," Damian replied, and Dick could hear the frown in his brother's voice.

"I asked that already, didn't I?"

Damian hesitated, then admitted, "Yes, but some confusion is to be expected," and Dick knew that every symptom he was displaying was being noted and categorized.

"Casualties?"

"Just you, careless as usual. Where does it hurt?"

"The back of my head."

"Where exactly?"

"Lower . . . base of my skull."

"No other injuries? Ribs?"

Dick had to admit that every place that had impacted the wall ached, but he felt fairly confident he didn't have any broken bones. "Bruised ribs . . . maybe."

"Any other symptoms?"

"Besides not . . . being able to see?" Dick said and felt Damian shift uncomfortably. "Dizzy . . . nauseated."

Dick wanted to keep talking; he didn't want to be alone with his thoughts. He wanted - needed - distraction from the pounding in his head and the dark chaos in his eyes. "Talk to me, Robin."

"Pain level?"

"Don't want to talk . . . about _that._ Entertain me."

"Tt. My question has clinical validity."

"You're not a doctor . . . and you're not going to do anything . . . until Bats gets here . . . unless my status changes . . . which you can monitor . . . through conversation."

Damian heaved a begrudging sigh. "I will humor you, since you are the one, once again, lying on the ground injured." He paused for a moment, and Dick guessed that he was trying to think of something to say. "I believe we may need to change Batcow's hay supplier. The last delivery was decidedly subpar."

Dick knew that laughing would hurt, but he grinned. "Hard to find . . . quality hay . . . these days."

"Indeed. No wonder family farms are failing in this country. Poor attention to detail."

They continued to chat for the next couple of minutes, though Dick had an increasingly hard time tracking the conversation, until Dick heard the familiar growl of the Batmobile. He winced as the roar approached to within just a few feet of where he was laying.

"Sensitivity to sound?" Damian asked when the car came to a halt.

"Yes. It's like a . . . bad hangover . . . not that you should . . . have experience with that."

Damian didn't respond, so Dick waited as long as he could stand before he finally demanded, "Tell me what's happening."

"Batman is approaching Clayface. He's already contacted the GCPD, but ordered them to stay back until he gives the all-clear. Now he's pouring the liquid nitrogen over Clayface." Damian paused for a minute. "He's coming this way."

Years of working and training with Batman allowed Dick to pick up the subtle sound of Batman's boots and the hiss of the cape as it dragged behind the vigilante.

"Nightwing. Status report." The voice, while quiet, was close. Batman must have knelt down.

"Head injury," Robin replied, even though Dick felt positive that Batman had been not been addressing Damian. "I believe he's lost consciousness twice. He's coherent but has displayed some signs of short term memory loss. He seems more confused now than when I first started talking to him. And . . ." Robin hesitated, a hint of emotion creeping into his voice that had so far been professional, almost cold. "And, he's . . . blind."

Dick would never know if Bruce reacted visibly, but all Batman said was, "Blurred vision, loss of visual acuity, limited field of vision?" in his usual low growl.

"No, not just . . . blurriness . . . more than that . . . Robin is right . . . I can't see anything," and admitting it out loud - again - caused the panic to bang inside its box, threatening to break out. Dick tried another breathing exercise, imagining that he was tracing a square in his mind and inhaling or exhaling every time he turned a corner. It worked, but he missed most of the quiet conversation between Batman and Robin. It was getting harder to stay alert.

He felt someone touch his shoulder, and he told himself to pay attention. "Nightwing, we're going to roll you onto your back, put on a spinal collar, then get you into the Batmobile. Red Robin is here too. Don't try to resist or help. Let us move you."

"Understood," Dick replied. He knew this was going to hurt. He felt strong hands, too small to be Batman, too big to be Damian, must be . . . . who else was here? . . . Batman had just said a name . . . must be Tim . . . grip him on either side of his head and support him as Batman and Robin rolled him to his back. He felt someone position a spinal collar around his neck and gasped as the top portion brushed the painful spot at the base of his skull. The surface he was now lying on didn't feel like asphalt anymore, and he suspected that Batman must have got him onto a backboard. This was confirmed when he felt bindings tighten around his body.

"Okay?" Red Robin asked. "We are going to lift you up in a minute."

"This is . . . overkill?" Dick responded. Somehow, the backboard and neck brace made him feel more embarrassed than lying motionless on the street had. All of the precautions and first aid paraphernalia had him feeling self-conscious and pitiful, even though using them was all Batman's idea.

"You were thrown against a wall. Even though you reported that you could move, there is still a chance you have damage to your spinal cord," Batman responded in a tone that clearly forbade any further discussion.

Robin had let go of Dick's hand to help roll him over, but now he felt Robin grab his hand again. As much as he hated being the one to receive comfort from the thirteen year old instead of giving it, he felt grateful for the touch. It helped to orientate and ground him.

Batman counted to three, and then Dick felt himself being lifted into the air and maneuvered into the batmobile. When necessary, the front passenger seat of the latest model could be folded completely flat, allowing enough room for a back board on top of it and the back seat. They were careful, but Dick bit his lip as the jostling ignited the pain in his skull, and the movement increased his vertigo.

"How are you?" Batman asked.

For a second, Dick couldn't remember the word he needed. "Tired," he finally managed.

"Red Robin, stay here and talk to the Commissioner. The police can come as soon as we leave. Robin, join Nightwing in the car and help keep the board steady."

Dick felt like maybe he was losing his grip on consciousness again, as the pain and dizziness overtook him, but he managed to ask, "Where?"

"I'm taking you to Leslie."


	3. Raking Bare Feet

Batman spoke into his comm as he steered the Batmobile past the crowd of police officers and civilian bystanders. "Oracle, alert Dr. Thompkins that we are about eight minutes out, and have her prep for head trauma. Then call Agent A and have him meet us there ASAP."

"On it," Oracle replied, using her voice modulator, so Batman couldn't detect any worry she might be feeling.

"Contact Red Hood, Black Bat and Batgirl. Tell them Batman, Nightwing and Robin will be out the rest of the night."

"Will do."

"Batman out."

Robin continued to talk to Nightwing, but if Nightwing responded, it was too quiet for Batman to hear.

Given the situation and his normal driving habits, Batman felt that he kept to a very reasonable speed. He didn't want to jar Nightwing with any unnecessary turns or decelerations. He kept to precisely 10 miles above the posted speed limit, and braked gently into each turn. Exactly 7 minutes and 48 seconds after he finished his call to Oracle, Batman pulled the vehicle up to the hidden back entrance of Leslie's clinic.

The doctor and one of her trusted nurses had been waiting for them, so as Batman raised the Batmobile's canopy, they were already moving forward with a stretcher. Batman vaulted over the hood to help Robin and the professionals move the backboard onto the stretcher, and then they were rushing Nightwing into the building.

Leslie and the nurse each took an arm and removed a gauntlet. The nurse took scissors designed to cut Kevlar and sliced open the sleeve of Nightwing's suit so she could take his blood pressure. Leslie took Nightwing's hand and leaned right over him. "Nightwing, can you answer me?"

"He's been in and out of consciousness, but hasn't spoken since we got him in the car," Batman responded.

"Dick, it's Dr. Thompkins. Can you talk to me, honey?"

When Dick still didn't reply, Leslie let go of his hand and slipped an oxygen cannula over Nightwing's ears, then peeled off his mask. "Nightwing, open your eyes." No response. "Dick, can you open your eyes and look at me?" Still nothing. Leslie took Dick's hand again and did something to his fingernail. Batman didn't see what, but it was uncomfortable enough that Dick's eyes opened.

"Dick, tell me what happened. What do you remember?"

Batman narrowed his eyes and stared at his son, as if the batglare alone would be able to make Dick speak. He knew that Dick had been initially coherent in the field, by the time Batman arrived, Nightwing was barely conscious. "Run?" Dick finally mumbled. "Marshmallows and bike."

Leslie frowned, but other than that maintained her professional composure. "Dick, can you move the arm that I was holding?" When he didn't move, Leslie pushed a thumb into the brow ridge just below his eyebrow. Dick flailed clumsily but didn't reach his hand up to stop her. Batman had to grab Robin's shoulder to stop him from attacking the doctor.

"Glasgow coma scale score is 9," Leslie reported.

Meanwhile, the nurse had an IV fluid bag started, and was hooking Dick up to other instruments. The doctor pried open Dick's eyelids and shined her penlight back and forth across each eye. "His pupils are light reactive."

"That's a good sign, isn't it?" Batman couldn't help but ask, feeling a touch of relief.

"Usually, yes." Leslie glanced at Batman, then returned her attention to Dick. "What happened, exactly?"

Robin responded, "Clayface flung him against a wall. He was down for a couple of minutes, but then stood up. He told us what to do and took down Clayface, but then he collapsed and told me he couldn't see."

Leslie looked sharply at Robin. "Could he see at any point after hitting the wall?"

"I don't know." Robin hesitated. "He had us drive Clayface towards him, then jumped when when we were very close. It is possible that he couldn't see at that point, but he gave no indication of it."

Leslie carefully felt all around Dick's skull, examined his nostrils, looked in and then behind each ear, then removed a boot and drew her reflex hammer up the sole of his foot. It moved as expected, and Batman felt another small surge of relief.

"Where exactly did he hit his head?" she asked.

"I couldn't tell from my angle, but later he said the base of his skull hurt," Robin answered.

Leslie turned to the nurse. "Let's get a CT of his head and neck. I'll join you in a minute." The nurse nodded and pushed the stretcher towards an interior door.

Leslie looked back at Batman. "Bruce, I don't know the full extent of his injuries yet, but I believe that he needs to be in a hospital."

"Treat him here."

"He has a moderately severe traumatic brain injury, and I strongly suspect a skull fracture. I am not a neurosurgeon, and even if I was, I don't have the equipment here to perform brain surgery. Even if he doesn't need surgery now, there's a high risk of complications which would require emergency surgery. He needs to be in an ICU where they can monitor him, and he'll need 24/7 nursing care."

"Alfred has provided similar care before."

"Not for this kind of brain injury, not to mention the opthamalogic concerns, which neither Alfred nor I are even close to qualified to treat. Do you want to play the odds with his sight?"

"Of course not," Batman bit out.

"Think about it. Do you want to deal with brain bleeds or increased intracranial pressure here? Or even in the Batcave?" She spun on her heel and joined the nurse in the other room.

Batman folded his arms, staring at the door Leslie had exited through. Robin glanced back and forth between the door and Batman, but didn't say anything.

Finally, Batman sighed. He wasn't ready to say it out loud, but if Dick needed ICU-level care and had a high chance of requiring brain surgery, the best place for him wasn't the cave or the clinic. Reading between the lines, Leslie was clearly concerned about brain damage. Alfred could handle even complicated and delicate medical states at home, but this might be too much. Batman removed his cowl and knelt down to look his youngest son in the eye.

"Damian, you did everything right out there," Bruce said.

"Is he going to be alright?"

Bruce nodded firmly. He knew he couldn't - should not - promise anything, but he said, "It might be a hard road for a while, but he's Dick Grayson. He'll get through it."

Just then they heard the sound of the back door being unlocked. Only members of the Bat family and Leslie herself knew the code, so Bruce wasn't surprised to see Alfred. Bruce filled him in on Dick's condition, and explained that Leslie wanted to transfer Dick to a hospital.

"Are you sure you couldn't manage this in the Cave?" Bruce asked.

"If that is what you determine to be the wisest course of action, then of course I will do my best. However, from what you have told me, Master Dick's case does seem to be . . . especially medically delicate."

Bruce harrumphed, but conceded Alfred's point.

"What do you think, Master Bruce?"

Bruce frowned. "I think we need to find out which hospital in Gotham has the best damn neurology department."

"Agreed. I will contact Ms Gordon; if she doesn't know already she will find out."

"We should have everyone change into civilian clothes, and come up with a cover story to explain the injuries."

"If you will allow me to handle that, Master Bruce, I believe I already have an appropriate cover story in mind. I have changes of clothes for the three of you in the car."

Just then Leslie returned, and the three men turned to face her expectantly.

"The CT does not show any spinal damage, though there is a closed linear skull fracture which I'd like a neurosurgeon to evaluate. There is also evidence of intracranial lesions which may explain the visual loss, but again, a specialist should be consulted. There are signs of a slightly elevated intracranial pressure, which will need close monitoring and may become emergent. He is safe to move. Where would you like to take him? I'll call an ambulance and ride with him."

Bruce just stood there for a moment, trying to absorb her words. No spinal damage - good. Closed linear skull fracture was the most straightforward kind of fracture and usually didn't require surgery, unless there were complications. But he didn't like the sound of intracranial pressure and lesions and Leslie didn't sound like she knew why his son couldn't see.

"Barbara is evaluating our choices for hospitals. We need him in his regular clothes and we should have an answer by the time he's done. Do we have time for that?"

"Yes. You two get changed." Leslie gestured at Bruce and Damian. "Kathy, Alfred and I will work on Dick."

Bruce nodded and started to turn away, before Leslie quietly said, "And Bruce, I would recommend getting the rest of the family to meet you at the hospital as soon as they can."


	4. Fear of Wolves

Fear of Wolves - Chapter 4

Commissioner Gordon approached Red Robin as he supervised GCPD taking custody of Clayface's temporarily frozen form.

"Did you take on Clayface on your own?" the older man asked.

"Just at first. Nightwing and Robin came pretty quickly, and the three of us took him down."

"I saw the Batmobile leave a few minutes ago."

"Yes, Batman had to bring the liquid nitrogen. Which we would have already been carrying if we had been informed that Clayface had escaped." Tim shot a sideways glare at Gordon.

The police commissioner winced. "He escaped Blackgate yesterday morning. They are supposed to inform us immediately, but we didn't get a notification. I'll look into it personally."

Tim nodded, not trusting his voice at that moment. _Too late for Nightwing_.

"I haven't seen Nightwing around Gotham much recently. I was hoping I would get a chance to speak to him tonight," Gordon said casually.

"He spends most of his time in Bludhaven."

"Of course. It's just not like him to stick around after a major collar like this."

Tim knew that Gordon suspected something was off, so he forced himself to shrug. "I was the first on scene, so I said I'd stay."

"Fair enough. So did you have any trouble with Clayface? I'm sorry you guys weren't warned ahead of time."

Time to cut this short. "No trouble to speak of." Not a lie, since Tim had no intention of talking to Gordon or anyone outside the family about Nightwing. Of course Tim could lie with the best of them when he had to, but sometimes a misleading truth was the most believable option. "Now if you'll excuse me, sir, if your officers have this under control I'm going to head out."

"Good work tonight, and tell Nightwing and Robin I said the same thing to them."

"Will do." And this is why Batman never speaks to Gordon on the ground if he could help it. It's a lot harder to disappear mysteriously into the night if there isn't a building to jump off. Tim fired his grapple gun and lets it tug him into the air.

Tim finished the rest of his planned patrol route. He didn't receive any updates on Dick's condition and didn't ask for any. Part of him just didn't want to deal with it. As long as he didn't know any different, Dick was okay. Tim recognized that as coping mechanisms went, it was a pretty poor one, but he couldn't face any more loss. So if he just went about the rest of his night as planned, he could pretend nothing was wrong.

After arriving back at his loft through the roof, Tim checked his civilian cell phone to find a message from Barbara, informing him to head to Gotham General Hospital when he got home. Tim realized that meant that Dick had been admitted in his civilian identity. It wasn't a good sign that Leslie had felt she couldn't treat Dick effectively in either her clinic or the batcave, but at least the situation wasn't so urgent that Oracle had contacted Red Robin.

Sighing, Tim changed into jeans and a tee shirt then headed back out. He asked for directions at the front reception desk and was directed to a waiting room on the third floor. He saw Bruce first, with Damian curled up on the chair next to him, head in Bruce's lap, fast asleep. Bruce had one large hand resting on Damian's shoulder. Barbara and Alfred were chatting quietly in a corner and didn't look up when he arrived, but Bruce beckoned him closer.

"How is he?" Tim asked softly. "I'm guessing bad since you wanted me here at 2 a.m., but not so bad that you felt you needed to interrupt patrol."

"True, but not exactly why I asked Barbara to text you. I was hoping that you could take Damian back home with you. He refused to go back to the Manor with Alfred earlier, but your place is only ten minutes away . . ."

Tim nodded his understanding. "He doesn't want to be too far away. Of course I'll take him back to the loft, if you think you can convince him to leave."

"Leslie told me that Dick woke up in the ambulance, very confused and agitated, so she sedated him. They're getting some imaging done and then they're going to keep him sedated for at least several hours. You two would be able to get back here quickly when Dick starts to wake up."

"So what's the prognosis?" Tim sat next to Bruce, on the far side from Damian.

"Too early to tell. They won't be able to do a full neurological evaluation until he's awake."

"So why not take him off the meds and let him wake up now?"

"Concern about the pressure inside his skull, and his earlier aggression. Leslie had to restrain him." Bruce sounded as dispassionate as always, but a certain tightness around his jaw gave away the fact that he was repressing his emotions as hard as he could. And few people could repress his emotions as effectively as Bruce.

Tim grimaced. Just thinking about Dick, waking up blind, disoriented, surrounded by civilians he didn't know, probably without any memory of what had happened or where he was. No wonder Dick had panicked. And the civilians probably hadn't been thrilled to have a confused Nightwing try to fight them, whether or not he could see. His stomach twisted. "He probably thought he'd been captured," Tim whispered, even though they were alone in the room.

"Perhaps, though Leslie said agitation is very common with his kind of injury."

Tim nodded again. "What time should we get back here?"

"Rounds are from 6 to 8, so after that."

"Okay. You wake up Damian and convince him to come with me."

Bruce gently shook the demon-child until he woke up, frowning. Bruce explained his plan to the grumpy thirteen year old.

"I wish to sit with Grayson," Damian countered. He glared at Tim, as if he blamed Tim for both waking him up and Bruce's plan.

"I want to be with him too, but the doctor said we can't go the ICU until Dick is more stable." Bruce squeezed Damian's shoulder, and Damian let him.

"Fine," Damian growled. "But I insist that Tim return me here as soon as possible."

"Of course I will, kid. Bruce will call if anything happens, otherwise I'll bring you back by 8. I'll even buy you breakfast somewhere on the way, and we'll still get here on time," Tim said.

"Acceptable, if the restaurant serves pancakes. Take me to your place. I assume you have high quality bedding."

As promised, Tim delivered Damian, fed with pancakes, back to Bruce at precisely 8 am. They were back in the same waiting room, but this time several other groups of tired and stressed family members shared the space. He greeted everyone, getting polite replies from Alfred and Barbara and a small grunt and nod from Bruce. He started passing out take-away cups of coffee from the diner.

"Visiting hours have started, but the neurologist and neurosurgeon are evaluating Dick now, so they've asked us to wait." Barbara accepted the cup of coffee that Tim handed her.

Tim deposited Damian back in the seat next to Bruce. The kid had been surprisingly compliant, but Tim was grateful to return him to the care of his father. Barbara had gone home at least long enough to change and shower, since her damp hair was back in a pony tail. Bruce and Alfred looked exactly the same, except more exhausted. They waited. The other patients' families and friends flowed in and out of the lounge, with just the little bat-affiliated group waiting for word that the neurologist was done with Dick and they could see him.

Finally a nurse approached Bruce, smiling. "He did well with the neurologist. He's not fully awake, but he'll know you're there and might respond to basic commands. You can go back now, one or two at a time."

"How long can we stay?" Alfred asked, eyes bright.

"He can have visitors the rest of the day, as long as he stays stable, but if you all want a chance to say hello while he's still aware, I'd make the first visits short to give everyone a chance."

Damian had already stood up and was tugging Bruce along. No one begrudged the two of them going first, so Tim thanked the nurse and settled back into his seat to wait his turn. After a moment, he felt Barbara reach out to take his hand. He smiled at her and she smiled back, anxiety warring with hope.

"You two next, I insist," Alfred said to Tim and Barbara when Damian and Bruce returned.

Tim was about to protest - Alfred had practically raised Dick, in some ways even more than Bruce had - but Barbara was already wheeling her way to the door. He shrugged and mumbled "thanks" as he followed her.

This was certainly not the first time Tim had visited someone in the ICU and he knew it wouldn't be the last, but the first view of the patient was always upsetting. Dick layed motionless in bed, propped up to about 30 degrees, head turned to one side. His skin, usually a rich tan color, was pale with dark circles under his eyes. He was surrounded by various IV stands, pumps and monitors, had electrodes on his forehead, tubes everywhere. Thankfully he wasn't ventilated, though he had a breathing mask on. At least the restraints were gone.

Barbara approached the nearest side of the bed, threading her way past the equipment, and took Dick's hand. Tim walked to the far side, pulled up a chair, and sat down next to Dick. The hand on Tim's side had a pulse oximeter on one finger, and an IV line, so Tim gingerly put his hand on Dick's shoulder.

"Hi Dick, it's Barbara. Tim is here too. Do you know who we are?"

Tim saw a smile even behind the oxygen mask. "Course I do," Dick mumbled. "Babs. Timbo," and Tim wasn't crying. Not at all.


	5. Fear of Wolves part 2

Red Hood had been in the first half of an unusually busy patrol when he heard Red Robin alert everyone on the comms that Clayface had escaped, and request aid. Nightwing responded almost immediately, saying that he and Robin were close and would help, saving Jason from having to do it. He'd only been included on the main group channel a couple of months ago, as part of his cautious reintegration into the Batclan. For the most part, he did his own thing and let them get on with their own plans, though he would have helped even the Replacement with Clayface if Nightwing hadn't replied. Jason might not have done it happily, but he would have done it.

Less than half an hour had passed between the first call about Clayface and an update from Oracle that Robin, Batman and Nightwing were going to be unavailable the rest of the evening. Oracle didn't mention any reason for them being out, but he guessed that either Robin or Nightwing had been hurt, but honestly, he didn't think too much about it. Oracle hadn't mentioned any serious injuries. He made a mental note to check in at the end of his night if he hadn't heard before then, and continued on shooting rubber bullets at would-be rapists, robbers and other criminals.

Then Red Hood accidentally stumbled across a minor gang war, shot his way out of it, and collapsed into his bed well past 3:00 a.m., after stitching up a minor bullet wound - only a graze - on his arm and forgot all about checking in with Batman or Oracle.

So when his personal phone started playing the opening guitar riff of "Back in Black" by AC/DC five hours later, he blearily whacked at it until it stopped. When it immediately started playing again, Jason cracked an eye open and peered at it. No name came up, but he vaguely recognized the number. Who could be calling at this time of day and knew Jason's number, but hadn't been saved in his phone? "Shit, it's Bruce!" Jason groaned. Why would Bruce call him? He hadn't killed anyone last night - he was sure of it.

He stared at the phone while the call when to voicemail and then started ringing again. Jason decided that the lesser of two evils at this point was just to answer it. He cleared his throat. "Hey there, boss man. What do I owe the pleasure?" he drawled. The effect was slightly ruined by his sleep-roughened voice.

"Jason," and then Bruce paused, the silence lengthened and grew awkward. Jason hated talking to him out masks. When there wasn't a fight or a mission, the spectres of their strained past and the regrets of what might have been felt so tangible Jason could almost choke on them. "Dick's in the ICU at Gotham General," Bruce finally said.

Whatever Jason had expected Bruce to say, that was not it. "Clayface?"

"Yes, traumatic brain injury. He's not in a coma but he's not awake yet either."

That didn't really make sense, but Jason shoved it aside. "Did they get Clayface? I will go out and hunt him down now," he growled, feeling anger rising quickly.

"Yes, Clayface is back in custody," Bruce stated, voice like permafrost. "I just thought . . . Dick would want you to visit. He knew we were there, earlier. It would mean a lot to him."

"Yeah, Dickface always wants to play happy family, even when it's an act." Jason knew it was a shitty thing to say but couldn't stop himself.

Bruce was quiet again, and Jason kicked himself but wouldn't apologize. Finally, Bruce said, "If you visit, you should know before you . . . see him, that at least temporarily, Dick is blind."

Jason nearly dropped his phone. "Temporarily?"

"Quite possibly permanent, but it's too early to tell."

"Well, fuck . . ." Jason breathed. "Thanks for the heads up. I'll head there later." And then because it was what you were supposed to say, and Jason now felt kinda bad for his asshole remark earlier, he asked, "Anything I can do?"

"Not right now. Just come," and then Bruce hung up, because he was too emotionally constipated to say goodbye like a human, especially after delivering news like that.

Jason stared at the now silent phone, trying to process the call. When his brain refused to work, he ran his hand through his hair. _Fuck. I need a shower and coffee before I can deal with this._

Once he'd finished his first cup and started working on the second, Jason tried to make sense of the information Bruce had so abruptly delivered, how Jason felt about it, and what he could possibly say to Dick. Before he came to any conclusions at all, almost without conscious thought, Jason was in the shower to get ready to head out.

By the time Jason finally arrived at the correct waiting room, he was pissed. He wanted to pick up something on the way, but the errand ended up more complicated and time consuming than he'd planned. He growled at the Replacement, who happened to be the first person he saw, "Did you know this place has five ICUs and no one bothered to tell me which one?"

Tim just stared at Jason, bemused. "You could have just given Dick's name at the front desk."

Jason didn't want to admit that he hadn't thought of that, he'd glanced at a map and headed to the first place he saw labeled ICU, so he demanded, "Is Golden Boy receiving visitors now or what?"

"Cass and Steph are with him now, but they'll be out soon. Only two visitors at a time."

Jason couldn't quite bring himself to thank Tim, so he nodded and took a seat next to Alfred.

"How you holding up?" Jay asked.

"Oh, as well as can be expected, Master Jason," Alfred replied.

Jason lightly bumped him on the shoulder and said, "Dick will get through this, you know."

"Of course, I haven't the faintest doubt in my mind."

Jason sat with Alfred for a few minutes, and it was almost nice, despite where they were, to simply be with each other. Then Cass and Steph appeared, Steph wiping tears away from her eyes, and Cass didn't look much better.

Jason made his way to the door, but Cass stopped him and stood on her tip toes to pull him into a hug. "It is good that you are here," she said. "I'll show you the way."

He just hugged her back without saying a word, knowing that was all she needed anyway, and followed her. The ICU was a large circular shape, with a round bay of desks in the center. Patient rooms fanned along the outer rim, walled off from each other but completely open on the side facing the middle. Cass led him along the curved hallway until she paused at one room. She gripped Jason's forearm for a second, then turned and walked away.

Dick was completely motionless, and maybe that was one of the most wrong things about this whole situation. Jason had expected to see the various tubes and wires and lines, the equipment and screens surrounding the bed. Dick's eyes were half open, and his head was turned towards Jason. Jason approached the bed slowly, years of training and his own innate sense of caution making his foot falls silent.

"Hey there, Goldie," Jason announced, and Dick _flinched,_ eyes flying wide, but they didn't focus on anything.

"Oh shit, sorry man. I should have shuffled my feet or something," Jason said.

"Jay?" Dick asked, closing his eyes.

"Yeah, it's me." Jason perched on the chair and opened up his backpack. "I wasn't sure if you'd be awake or not."

Dick made a small humming sound. Jason waited, but Dick didn't say anything else.

"I picked up something on the way here, and man, that was harder than I thought, because I had to stop at a coffeeshop and charge it, and download what I wanted, so you better be grateful."

Dick made the _mmmm_ noise again.

"So anyway," Jason continued, "it's a book reader, and I put some of my favorites on it, and I used to see copies around the library at the manor, so I think you'll like them too, and I thought I could read something to you." He pulled it out of the bookreader and turned it on. "I'll leave it here too, so anyone could read it if they wanted to."

Jason stopped talking, and waited to Dick to respond. _It was a stupid idea; he's too out of it_ , he thought, but tried one more time. "Would you like to me read out loud?"

Dick made a lazy, brief thumbs up sign, and Jason grinned in relief.

Jason opened up _Ivanhoe_ by Sir Walter Scott, and read the first line. "In that pleasant district of merry England which is watered by the river Don, there extended in ancient times a large forest, covering the greater part of the beautiful hills and valleys which lie between Sheffield and the pleasant town of Doncaster."


	6. Never Know

Damian hoped that Grayson's second day in the ICU would bring less visitors, less interruptions for tests or scans or other medical stuff that Father didn't want Damian to see, fewer times when the doctors and nurses just kicked everyone out. Damian resumed his place at Grayson's side as soon as visiting hours started. Father had to call Lucius, but had promised to join Damian soon. Damian greeted the first Robin as soon as he sat down and grabbed his hand, but unlike the previous day, he did not respond.

Yesterday, a nurse or doctor had asked Grayson various questions periodically. The first time Damian observed the assessment, the first question had been "What is your name?"

Grayson had tried to feel his face for a mask and mumbled, "What clothes am I wearing?"

The nurse had looked concerned at the apparent non-sequitur, but Father and Damian made eye contact, satisfied.

Grayson knew who he was, and he recognized everyone in the family, but he had problems retaining any new information. Yesterday, during each assessment, he was told that he was in Gotham General Hospital, but the next time someone asked him the name of the hospital, he couldn't remember.

"Grayson. You were interacting yesterday. Have you fallen asleep already?"

Still nothing. Damian had felt slightly ridiculous holding Grayson's hand yesterday morning but at least he had been sure that the other was aware of it. Now with Grayson seemingly unconscious again, Damian felt even more silly. He tried one more time. "Grayson . . . Richard. I'm back."

Damian let go of Grayson's hand and busied himself with attempting to interpret the various monitors and graphs.

The same nurse who had spoken with them in the waiting room yesterday walked up to Grayson and checked various read outs. She had also been Grayson's nurse the day before, dividing her time just between Grayson and one other patient. She had introduced herself as Jennifer. Damian watched her as she adjusted one of the IV pumps.

"It's normal for TBI patients to slip in and out of awareness, especially this early," she said as she moved on to another machine. "It hasn't even been thirty-six hours since your brother's accident."

Damian picked at a tiny loose thread on Grayson's blanket. "He's not my brother."

The nurse turned around to look at Damian and gave a small smile. "Really? Because anyone under thirteen needs to be family to be in here." Her warm tone of voice belied the stern words.

"I am almost thirteen. He is my . . . He was adopted. I'm my father's only blood son."

"Well, in my book adopted counts for just as much as blood. It's obvious that you care about him, otherwise you wouldn't be so worried." Jennifer turned back to the IV pump.

"I am not worried. I am merely . . . _noticing_ that yesterday he seemed so much more aware than he is now." Damian moved his fingers to a small ball of lint on the blanket.

The nurse stopped whatever she was doing with one of the tubes and gave Damian her full attention. "Waking up from a head injury like this is not like they show in movies, unconscious one minute and then holding a rational conversation the next."

"So what is it really like?"

"It's usually a slow process. Sometimes they can respond and sometimes they can't, but there's a gradual transition. Mr. Grayson actually did better in his neurological exam earlier this morning than he did at any point yesterday, so he could simply be tired now."

"How long does the process last?" Damian demanded.

"It's impossible to say, but the fact that he moved from minimally conscious to confusional pretty quickly is a good sign. We never know exactly how the healing process will go." Jennifer replied.

"What do I do when he's like this? Does he even know I'm here?"

"Hold his hand, and just say whatever is on your mind. Tell him about your favorite experiences together. Tell him who you are, who he is, where he is, what day it is. He might forget again, so keep reminding him. Studies actually show that familiar voices and familiar stories speed recovery."

Damian considered what she said for a few moments. If there was scientific proof that talking could aid in recovery, then he would prattle almost as well as Grayson himself could. After all, Damian had spent long enough listening to Grayson go on and on. "I can do that."

Jennifer smiled. "I'm going to check on my other patient, but I'll be back soon."

Damian waited until she was gone, then picked up Grayson's hand again. "My name is Damian Wayne. You are Richard Grayson." He leaned forward, careful not to touch or move anything besides the hand that he was holding, and whispered. "You're Nightwing, and I'm Robin. But you used to be Batman, MY Batman."

Continuing to speak softly into Grayson's ear, Damian asked, "Do you remember the first time we patrolled together, just the two of us? Let me tell you about it."

Most of the families and friends of the other ICU patients were caught up in their own personal situations, so Damian and the rest of the family had been ignored for most of the previous day. However, in the late afternoon one teenaged visitor caught sight of them and bellowed "Hey, isn't that Bruce Wayne?" It hadn't taken much persuasion after that for the hospital administration to provide them with a small room near the main lounge to use instead.

After spending most of the morning with Grayson, Damian decided to take a short nap on the couch in their private room after lunch. He and Father had patrolled the previous night, both finding some relief in the righteous application of controlled violence against criminals, and Damian typically didn't rise this early on mornings after patrol. Todd was with Grayson anyway, reading Ivanhoe again, and Damian used the excuse that he found Todd's speaking voice to be abrasive to leave and suggest that Pennyworth take his place. Todd's voice was actually rather pleasant, and he had a talent for subtly changing his tone and accent for the different characters, but Damian knew that Alfred had been deferring to another member of the family all morning and hadn't had much time of his own with Grayson. Father immediately stated that he had to send and review a few urgent emails, and Damian knew that he had seen through Damian's excuse and approved.

Curled up on the couch, back towards the room, hearing the quiet tap of Father's typing, feeling the large man's presence, Damian had no trouble falling asleep. He dreamt about the desert. The sand, curve after curve after curve of the dunes, stretching in every direction to the horizons. He dreamt of the shimmering haze in the distance, where sky met sand, the arid smell of the desert, heat that pushed from all directions, even from the ground, radiating up from the sand. He felt the bone-deep lassitude from the high temperature, the harsh dry air. The familiar glare of the sun made him raise his arm to shield his eyes to gaze upon the shocking blue sky. He heard the susurrus of the sand, felt the shift and yield below his feet. He was at peace, at one with the heat and the brightness and the rolling dunes, and then THWACK the sound of Grayson's body hitting the brick wall.

Damian jerked upright. He reached for a bottle of water and ignored his hand shaking. He drank until it was empty. The desert had been a lie. The heat was a lie. Grey, rainy Gotham was the truth. Gotham meant family, and the desert sun was a trap.

"Damian?" Father asked.

"I'm fine, Father. I just need to use the restroom." He splashed water on his face and glared at himself. He could not be weak now. Grayson needed him. When the shaking stopped, he returned to their room.

Just a few minutes later, Pennyworth returned. "Master Jason is about to finish for the day, so I will switch places with Master Damian, then perhaps Master Bruce would like a quick chat with Master Jason before he leaves."

Damian nodded his agreement with this plan even as Father hid a grimace, and hurried back to Grayson's bedside.

Todd waved to acknowledge Damian's presence, and finished the passage:

"Ivanhoe is like to hear evil tidings when he reaches England.—How looked he, stranger, when you last saw him? Had disease laid her hand heavy upon his strength and comeliness?"

"He was darker," said the Palmer, "and thinner, than when he came from Cyprus in the train of Coeur-de-Lion, and care seemed to sit heavy on his brow; but I approached not his presence, because he is unknown to me."

Then Todd cleared his throat, and said, "Well, Dickiebird, my voice is about done for the day, but I'll be back tomorrow. Damian's here now though."

As Damian and Todd swapped places so that Damian could sit in the chair, Damian quietly asked, "How is he?"

Todd shrugged. "He didn't talk a lot, but I think he was paying attention. Then he fell asleep, but it seemed more like a normal sleep than yesterday. The nurse came by and asked him some questions, and he got all of them right."

"That is more than acceptable. Thank you for the information," Damian replied, and ignored Todd's raised eyebrows at the thanks. Todd bid both of them goodbye and left.

"Hello, Grayson."

Grayson smiled. "Little D."

"Are you enjoying Todd's reading?"

"Yeah, I like the book. Ivanhoe was a favorite of mine when I was your age." Grayson's voice was soft but not slurred, and that was easily the longest he had spoken since getting into the Batmobile.

"Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital," Dick replied promptly, then frowned. He kept on forgetting which one. Then he grinned triumphantly. "Gotham General!"

"That is correct. Do you know what day it is?"

"Thursday." Dick knew that he was right and Damian squeezed his hand.

"Yes. Do you know why you're here?" This was another question that had been confusing him the previous day.

"Head." Dick grimaced and made an aborted motion towards his own head.

"Yes, you hit your head, but do you remember how?"

"I don't remember the accident at all . . . but Bruce told me I fell off a horse? And hit my head on a rock?"

That was the cover story Pennyworth had come up with and what they had been telling Dick and the hospital staff. "Correct."

"But Dami, why wasn't I wearing a helmet?"

There was no good answer to why he wasn't wearing a helmet while riding a horse that didn't even exist, so Damian squeezed his hand again.

Damian despised lying to Grayson about the real cause of his injury, but he had no filter at the moment. Earlier in the day, a doctor had asked him what his favorite thing to do for fun was, and Grayson replied that he liked jumping off of buildings and free-falling. Damian explained that he meant BASE jumping and skydiving, but not before Damian caught a horrified look on the doctor's face. Grayson had also told his nurse that he was Batman and then laughed for at least a minute straight. Father had not been amused.

Damian spent the rest of the afternoon sitting next to Grayson, telling stories, having short conversations when his brother felt up to it, leaving only when the nurse shooed him away or another family member briefly claimed his place. With every sign of Grayson's increasing coherence, in between the multiple naps, Damian felt the heat from the desert recede. He held his brother's hand and imagined flying with him through the cold Gotham night air. Somehow, Damian and Grayson would get that back.

Just before shift change, Grayson's neurologist stopped by his bed. Damian and Father had been taking turns reading more of Ivanhoe, and Damian put the book down and stood as the doctor paused at the foot of the bed, assuming that he was going to be asked to leave again so Grayson could be tested and poked in privacy. Dr. Finnegan smiled and motioned Damian to stay.

"Hello Richard. It's Dr. Finnegan," she said in greeting, and Damian made a note of how she spoke directly to Grayson, even though he'd been drifting in and out of awareness all day. "Mr. Wayne, Damian, it's good to see you again. Richard, are you awake enough to talk right now?"

"Yeah," Grayson agreed, not moving, and it was just so wrong that he didn't even turn his head towards her. "Feeling good."

"That's great news, and you've been doing really well today. Do you mind if your brother stays while I talk to you and your father?"

"As long as you aren't going to tell me I'm dying. I'm not dying, am I?"

The doctor chuckled. "I have good news, actually. I wanted to let you know that as long as your vitals continue to stay steady or improve, we'll be transferring you out of the ICU tomorrow morning."

Grayson grinned. "That is good news," he said, yawned, and went back to sleep.


	7. Blindness and Dreams

Dick knew something was wrong, but he was in the hospital, and he would get better.

Dick wondered why everyone kept asking him where he was, and what his name was, and how he got hurt. He knew who he was. But he didn't know why he didn't know what date it was, or where he was, or why he was there. They told him and eventually he started to remember, and that was better. They said, "I'm going to list three things, try to remember them," and then later they would ask what the things were. At first he couldn't remember those either, and that was weird, but later he could remember and everyone was happy.

Damian, Tim, Alfred, Cass, Steph, Babs and even Bruce touched him all the time - a hand on his shoulder or arm, or holding his hand. During the day, someone was almost always there, talking to him, touching him. He liked that. Jason didn't hold his hand but read to him. He liked that too.

Nights in the ICU were long and restless. He slept in brief snatches, woke up disoriented and alone. Tests and procedures waited until morning, but he was still moved, prodded, poked and assessed off and on all night.

He felt fuzzy and slow. Foggy. He was so tired, it was easier to sleep or let the words of his family wash over him. He didn't like how hard it was to just think. So much effort. Sometimes he talked, and he tried to pay attention, but sleeping was better.

Dick knew he couldn't see, and that wasn't good, but he was in the hospital, and he would get better.

By the time he was moved to the step-down unit on the morning of the third day, Dick felt more like himself. He knew his brain wasn't back to 100%, but he didn't feel quite so fuzzy. When they asked him questions, he always got the answers right. Of course, the questions were the same, simple questions like the date of his birth. Dick wasn't sure he'd be able to solve quadratic equations any time soon.

Babs was the first visitor after his move. "Hey there, hunk wonder," she said. Barbara always remembered to greet him as soon as she entered the room, and had never accidentally startled him. Dick turned his face toward her and smiled. She laced her fingers through his own and squeezed.

"Tim and I worked out a schedule between everyone so that someone will be with you 24/7, even overnight now that you're out of the ICU," she said.

"Thanks, Babs."

"Dick, I just wanted to let you know . . ." she hesitated and Dick already knew what she was going to say. "If you want to talk, I'm here."

He gently removed his hand from hers. "I'm fine. Or at least, I will be fine. Getting better every day."

"Your vision, too?"

"Yes," he said, and told himself it wasn't a lie because it would get better, soon. He was sure of it.

Bruce was the next visitor after Babs. He sat down next to Dick, and didn't say anything after his greeting. Alfred wasn't there, or Damian, and Dick couldn't say for sure, but he thought that this was the first time Bruce had come alone to visit Dick. Bruce didn't hold his hand until Dick opened and closed his hand a few times, and finally Bruce got the hint. Still Bruce didn't speak, and Dick could feel the awkward tension in the other man's hand fingers. Dick suspected that Bruce was working up to a difficult conversation, and Dick didn't really want to talk about it any more than Bruce did.

First Bruce attempted small talk. "I called your captain at the precinct the day after the . . . accident and told her that you'd be out for a while. She said she'd come visit when you're up to it."

Dick smiled behind the oxygen mask and when were they going to get rid of it? Didn't someone tell him that the injured brain is a needy brain? Maybe that's why he still had the mask. Focus, Grayson. "Amy's great. You'd like her."

"I'm sure I would."

Dick wondered if Amy and Bruce meeting was such a good idea. He tried to think about what they would say to each other. Bruce was still conflicted about Dick's day job, and Amy had killed criminals before, and he thought about what Bruce might say about that, and then somehow Bruce and Amy were eating icecream together and telling Dick that he needed to try harder.

"Dick," Bruce said and he knew that he was wandering again.

"Sorry."

But then Bruce still didn't talk, and if he wanted Dick to pay attention he really ought to say something, and Dick sure as hell wouldn't bring up his eyes first. Finally Dick needed to either talk or fall asleep, so he asked, "Are we alone?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Can I speak freely?"

"One moment." Bruce let go of Dick's hand and he heard him moving around, shutting the door, then sitting back next to him. Dick heard white noise start playing. "You can talk now, just keep it quiet."

"Bruce, was it really a horse?"

"No, it happened during your night job. Clayface."

"At least that makes more sense," Dick said. "What happened?"

"You got slammed into a wall. If you want the details, ask Tim tell to you when we get home, not here. I wasn't there. You should understand, though, that hearing the story probably won't help you remember it yourself."

"Okay, I just . . . wanted to know." Even though it changed nothing, Dick somehow felt better knowing that he'd been trying to be useful.

Bruce didn't say anything, and Dick heard him shifting in his chair. Bruce hadn't reached out to Dick after turning the white noise on, so Dick fidgeted with his blanket. Soon he had a large section of the blanket balled up into a lump bigger than his hand, and he dug his fingers into the fabric hard. Hard enough to ache. Still Bruce didn't say anything, so Dick sighed, forced himself to release the blanket and once again be the first to broach the silence.

"So what did you want to talk about? You're being weird." Dick forced himself to smile. He used to say that all the time to Bruce when he had been a kid and just couldn't figure out Bruce's complete lack of social skills outside of his Brucie persona.

"I am not," Bruce replied, half affronted and half amused. The tone of voice and response were so familiar that Dick felt like he was nine again and his grin was genuine. Bruce heaved a sigh, though, and continued, "I have arranged for an ophthalmologist and neuro-opthamologist to give you a complete examination in a few days. They are very highly thought of - the best in their field - and are coming in from Boston and New York."

So that explained the awkwardness, and Dick really didn't want to think about the worst case scenario, about hearing any kind of diagnosis, about any indication that this might be permanent, so he said, "It's not like complete darkness, you know."

"It's not?" Bruce asked in a studiously neutral tone.

"No, I can see light. I know that the window is that way." Dick gestured with a small wave of his hand. "The ICU didn't have a window at all, but I could tell when the lights were on or off."

"Hmmmm," Bruce said cautiously.

"I can see color too, I think, but everything is blurry and shadowy."

"Hospital rooms aren't exactly the most vibrant places."

"I don't remember what happened after the accident, but I keep having this dream of opening my eyes and seeing nothing. Like being in an unlit cave." Dick stopped for a few moments, forced himself to breathe calmly and gather his thoughts. "I think it might be what I saw right after the accident. Then I wake up, and open my eyes for real, and everything is strange, and flat, and doesn't make sense. But there is light, and shadow, and even colors."

Dick had to take a break again, and rubbed his blanket between his fingers. Bruce wasn't moving, and Dick couldn't even hear him breathe over the white noise. Dick felt exhausted, his head hurt, and without physical touch to anchor him, and with Bruce sitting as still as a gargoyle, Dick almost believed that he was talking to an empty room. Dick felt like Sputnik, orbiting alone.

After several beats, Dick continued, "So I think that maybe when I first woke up, I couldn't see anything at all, and maybe now it's getting better? It's a good sign, right?"

The truth was that Dick's vision - or what there was of it - was so different than what he'd had before that he couldn't interpret what he was seeing. Aside from being able to perceive light, he couldn't tell if what he saw had any correspondence with the real world.

Now would be a good time for Bruce to offer some reassurance, say anything comforting, but Bruce wasn't one for empty platitudes. When Bruce didn't respond, Dick wondered if that meant that Bruce didn't think that there was any hope.

Finally Bruce cleared his throat. "The hospital's own team will perform exams as well, when you're up for it, but I thought it best to make sure we could get a second opinion."

Dick really wished he could see Bruce, because most of Bruce's tells were subtle changes in posture and facial expression, and Dick couldn't read the other man's voice with the same accuracy. It didn't help that Bruce hadn't touched him again after closing the door and turning on the white noise machine. An island. John Donne, un-done.

"Arranging for a second opinion before even getting the first one? Expecting bad news?" he tried to joke, but the words were bitter on his tongue.

"I had the opportunity to bring in some world-class consultants, and of course I took that opportunity," Bruce maintained. He could be talking about pulling in a couple of MBAs from McKinsey for Wayne Enterprises, for all the emotion that his tone gave away.

Dick reminded himself that he knew Bruce cared, cared too damn much, but Dick couldn't be the emotionally mature one. Not today. Not like this.

"I'm tired, and I have a headache. Can you let me nap a bit?" It was true. Fatigue threatened to pull him down into the fog again, and he didn't see (ha!) any point in resisting. He didn't bother to listen to the sounds of Bruce leaving.

Every day, Dick's primary neurologist Dr. Finnegan came to visit him.

One day, she asked about his sleep patterns.

"Much like Fionn, I once again am awake," Dick smiled.

The doctor laughed. "If you can make James Joyce references, I can probably skip the nuero exam for today."

Damian scoffed. "Don't be fooled, Doctor. He's been working on that line all day."

But Dick could tell that Damian was smiling.

As the days passed, his family kept up the schedule that ensured that Dick was never alone. He couldn't remember the last time he'd spent so much time around his siblings, around Bruce as Bruce not Batman, around Alfred, Steph and Babs. He started to feel sufficiently recovered to chafe at being kept in bed.

He still slept a lot, though how much of that was the head injury versus the medications he wasn't sure. His awake periods were getting longer and he could have coherent conversations for half an hour or more. His headache never went away, just sliding between so bad it made him want to puke despite the anti-nausea meds to barely tolerable. The various tubes, wires, needles and other impositions dwindled. Progress. Dick was the pilgrim.

Jason and the rest of family also made progress through _Ivanhoe._ When Dick realized that he had dozed through one of his favorite chapters - the second day of the knight's tournament, when the disinherited knight is unmasked and his identity revealed - he asked Jason to read it again.

Jason sighed but agreed almost kindly. "Whatever you say, Dickie."

As Jason flipped back to the chapter, Dick said, "You should probably stop being so nice to me. It's freaking me out a little."

"You should probably stop giving yourself brain damage."

Dick thought that was hilarious.

Jason huffed over the sound of Dick's laugher and started reading again. "'Morning arose in unclouded splendour . . . '"

Maybe his emotional responses weren't quite normal yet. He knew his judgement was off. Besides laughing at things that probably weren't funny, he kept on making slips about his double-life.

When the nurse was changing an IV, she commented on how Dick had such a large family.

"This isn't even my whole family," Dick replied. "I mean, my uncle hasn't even shown up, and considering that he's Superman, and can fly, he has no excuse."

Damian happened to be sitting with Dick. "Grayson, what on earth are you talking about?" Damian exclaimed.

"Well, I know he's not my actual, literal uncle, Damian. I know I'm not related by blood to an alien from the planet Krypton. I'm not stupid."

"Tt. I never said you were, but perhaps you should be quiet before the nurse thinks you're delusional." Dick heard the nurse stifle a laugh, and excuse herself.

"What?" Dick demanded after she left. "I didn't give anything away. I didn't even tell her that I know Batman."

Damian sighed. "I know. I demand that you at least attempt to use more caution."

"Okay. Sorry Dami, I'll try harder."

Dick knew that he had a secret identity to maintain, and he never once answered the question of "what is your name" with Nightwing, so he didn't quite understand why Dami was upset, but on the other hand he could guess that the other patients probably weren't talking about getting a visit from Superman.

As the days progressed, the nurses let Dick drink, slowly at first, then eat - soft foods that they insisted on feeding him. Then real, albeit bland, food in small portions that they also fed him. Finally they trusted him with half a hamburger. Tim had been almost as excited as Dick and offered to grab one from a nearby restaurant. When Tim returned, the nurse said she was going to cut it up and feed it to Dick.

"Okay, seriously, you can't feed me a hamburger in pieces like I'm a toddler! Not in front of my little brother," Dick objected.

"It's hospital protocol," the poor nurse said.

"Just hand it to me," Dick insisted. "Just because I can't see doesn't mean I forgot where my mouth is. And it's only half."

The hamburger was placed into his hands and Dick sniffed greedily, the aroma rich and enticing. He took a bite, and it tasted even better than it smelled - beefy and fatty. The hot, juicy patty with it's hint of umami and melted cheese contrasted with the cold lettuce and tomato, and Dick couldn't stop. It was messy and drippy and delicious. Far too soon, he finished to the sound of Tim laughing.

"That was disgusting," Tim said.

"At least I have an excuse for poor table manners, Tim," Dick retorted, but he grinned.

The nights were different - a lonely, long expanse of time that ticked by so slowly it was nearly enough to drive him mad. He dozed, and seemed to only fall deep asleep right before he was woken by the routine nursing checks, and sometimes he just tried to sense time passing.

Someone should be there, someone had bid him goodnight and said to just call if he needed anything, but he couldn't look at them for reassurance. He couldn't see them to make sure they were still there. Maybe he was alone after all, and the companionship had been a fantasy, and he had died when his head slammed into the wall. Now he was in hell, alone, just himself. Hell was not other people - it was being alone. He had nothing to escape from and nothing to escape to. He knew that all he had to do was say something, anything, but what if he spoke and there was no one to answer? The confirmation of his loneliness would be worse, so he stayed silent and waited for the next check from the nurse.

During the day he laughed and joked. Dick was able to fall asleep to the sound of someone reading, or the feel of a hand on his shoulder, and know that he wasn't alone. He teased the physical therapist who helped haul him out of bed and wobble around. He had the occupational therapist cracking up as he bantered about having to relearn skills he'd had since he was five. He smiled whenever anyone asked how he was doing and replied, "Fine. I'm seeing more every day." He smiled and smiled and lied.


	8. Vertigo

Bruce looked around his son's third and final hospital room. After spending time in the ICU and a step down unit, being moved to a standard room on the neurological floor should have like a triumph. And it was, but Bruce couldn't help but think that if it wasn't for Dick's sight, they'd be home by now.

No point in thinking along those lines. Bruce had something important and perhaps a bit sensitive to discuss with Dick. He looked at Dick, sitting cross-legged on the bed with Cass and Steph. Cass was pressed up against his side, leaning slightly into him. Steph also sat on the bed, facing the other two. They had brought a huge assortment of toys - Steph called them fidgets - for Dick to occupy his hands while he was confined to bed.

There was nothing wrong with Dick's motor skills, but he'd experienced some vertigo the first couple of times he'd stood up. That, combined with the healing skull fracture and his . . . current lack of sight . . . made the hospital label him a "fall risk" and wouldn't let him out of bed without assistance. Bruce hoped that Dick himself hadn't heard that term. It was a very unfortunate term to apply to any acrobat, especially Dick.

"I like this one," Dick said, holding a hand exerciser the size and shape of a pack of cards in his palm. It had four spring-loaded buttons, one for each finger, that Dick was pressing and releasing in turn. He was finally free of IVs, and just had a hep lock in one forearm. "What is it?"

"It builds finger strength for guitar players," Steph said. "You used to play, right?"

Dick looked surprised and pleased that she knew that. "Yeah, I did."

"I thought it would be fun even if you don't play anymore," Steph continued.

"It's great. What else you got?"

"Here." Cass retrieved the grip trainer and placed a small plastic tub in Dick's hand. "It's a kind of slime. Poke it."

Dick pulled off the lid and stuck a finger into the jar. The goop made a squelch sound of protest that sounded very much like passing gas. The three burst into laughter.

"Damian will hate this," Dick enthused, provoking more giggles from Cass and Steph.

Bruce stepped closer to the bed and cleared his throat. He was loath to ruin Dick's good mood, but the two out-of-state doctors would be here soon.

Cass noticed immediately and placed a hand on Dick's wrist. "Bruce," she said, shooting a reproving look at Bruce. She didn't want him to upset Dick when he seemed genuinely happy.

"It's okay, Cass, Steph. Let me talk to the boss," Dick said.

"Do you want anything?" Steph asked as she climbed off the bed.

"Can you hand me that cube thing? And put the rest on the table, please?" Dick waved a hand in the approximate direction of the table.

Cass and Steph left after exchanging hugs with Dick, and Dick shifted so he was sitting back in the center of the bed. He raised his head and turned directly to face Bruce, and if Bruce didn't know any better, he would have sworn that Dick could see. His eyes in that startling shade of blue looked the same as always, pupils reacting to light, and Dick's training gave him enough spatial awareness to know exactly where everyone was, as long as they made at least a little noise. Whenever he was alert and not feeling terrible, which happened more each day, he faced whoever was talking to him. It was almost disconcerting.

"What's up, B?" Dick asked, rolling the fidget in his hand.

"Dr. Ariza and Dr. Dashwood are coming by in about an hour. My understanding is that the tests will potentially take a few hours, so I thought now would be good time for you to rest."

Dick shrugged, clicking a switch on the fidget off and on. "Bruce, I've only been awake for an hour." A smile took some of the sting out of the words.

"Just a few days ago you couldn't manage thirty minutes," Bruce reminded him sternly.

"Fine, but you didn't need to send Cass and Steph away. I always nap with someone in the room." The toy in Dick's hand made a click, click, click noise.

"There is one more matter that I wished to discuss . . ."

Dick waited. Click click click.

"You will need someone with you when you receive the diagnosis. It doesn't have to be me."

Dick stiffened slightly, "Why?"

"Cognitively, you aren't quite recovered yet. In addition to that, your short-term memory isn't 100% - "

"And this is too important for me to screw up," Dick interrupted. He was clicking furiously now.

"That's not how I would have phrased it, but essentially, yes," Bruce said.

"So thanks for reminding me - because I forgot again because of my shitty memory - that I am damaged, and require adult supervision to talk to my own doctors. Even if I manage to comprehend what they're talking about, I'll just forget what they said." Dick stopped clicking the ridiculous little toy and was now squeezing it so hard his knuckles were white.

"That is not at all what I meant, and I think you know it. All I was saying is that the wisest course of action would be to bring someone else with you. It doesn't have to be me. Alfred, Tim, Babs." Bruce tried very hard to stay calm. He wasn't sure how he could control a boardroom effortlessly or scare the crap out of a room full of criminals, but could barely get through a conversation with his oldest son.

"Fine," Dick bit out. "Alfred. Now, could you excuse me? If my faulty memory hasn't failed me again, I think you just told me to take a nap. Or maybe I didn't understand?"

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose; he definitely had a headache coming on. "I'll stay," he offered in conciliation.

"No, thank you. I'm fine." Each word was sharp, well enunciated and flung like daggers.

"I know you don't like to be left alone . . ."

"You're right. I can't be trusted on my own. Can you send Cass and Steph back in?"

Bruce filled Alfred in on the plan, then headed to Wayne Enterprises to take care of some business.

Hours later, Alfred alerted Bruce that Dick was almost done with his meeting and would be waiting for Bruce. Bruce crushed his rising anxiety and hurried back to Gotham General.

Bruce went back to Dick's room and took a moment to observe his son. Dick was sitting cross legged on his bed. He held his body stiffly, shoulders taut and neck tight, small furrow between his brow. Dark eye circles almost like bruises. But a small smile played across his lips.

Bruce jingled his keys in his hand as he stepped through the doorway, before putting them in his pocket. Dick turned towards the noise. "Bruce?"

"Yes, it's me. Can I come in?"

"Sure." Dick took a few controlled breaths, then said, "Bruce, listen . . . I'm sorry I snapped earlier. I'm . . . maybe I overreacted."

Bruce walked over and gave Dick's shoulder a brief squeeze. "I was . . . insensitive and imprecise with my word choices. No apology is needed."

Dick started to nod before freezing.

"How is your pain level?" Bruce asked as he took a seat.

"Fine." Blatant lie.

Bruce frowned. "It is clearly not being well-controlled. Have you asked for any meds?"

Dick huffed out a breath before admitting, "No, I haven't said anything . . . I wanted to be clear-headed for the meeting, and besides, I've had a couple of people mention how high my tolerance is for pain medications. I don't want to raise any more suspicions than I already have."

"Lot's of people metabolize certain drugs quickly, and has nothing to do with how much or little they've taken the past. Should I find a nurse?"

"Let me get through this, then I'll ask for something."

Bruce thought about pushing further, but didn't want to risk another argument. Besides, he was anxious to hear the doctors' diagnosis. He sat frozen for a moment. Should he take Dick's hand? Touch his shoulder again? Say something encouraging?

Dick solved his dilemma by talking again. "Dr. Ariza and Dr. Dashwood confirmed the diagnosis of cortical blindness. So there is nothing at all wrong with my eyes or my optic nerves. The problem is with my visual cortex."

Bruce nodded before stopping himself. "That's what the doctors here also believe. Prognosis?"

"Nearly everyone with this regains some vision. Some people even make a full recovery."

"That's excellent news, Dick."

"For me, specifically . . . how much vision, how functional it would be . . . they couldn't tell me."

"So we have to wait and see?"

Dick snorted. "Or, in my case, wait and hope to see."

Bruce winced. Though Bruce didn't make a sound, Dick seemed to know. "Bruce, don't worry about it. It was a joke."

Bruce ignored that. "Is there anything we can do to improve the odds?"

"Dr. Ariza is the neuro-opthamologist so he would be right person to consult. He said he would send me some case studies and articles about people who did recover completely. There isn't a treatment or cure that Dr. Ariza knows of, but you might be able to find a common thread."

"I'm not a doctor, Dick, but I'll see what I can do."

Dick grinned. "Somehow, I'm sure you'll teach yourself neurology if you think it would help."

Bruce could feel the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. "Maybe you're right." He hesitated for a moment, thinking, then decided that it needed to be said. "We'll beat this, Dick. We'll figure it out."

Dick ducked his head, turning away slightly. Bruce couldn't see his full expression, but it looked like the smile thinned and twisted. "I hope so."

Bruce gave Dick a pat on the knee. "Get some rest. I'll push the call button for a nurse. Do you want me to stay?"

"Yeah, you can stay. Please."

XXXXXX

Dick slept for an hour or so, waking up looking better rested and more comfortable.

"Have you told anyone else the news?" Bruce asked.

"Not yet. Alfred knows of course, but we agreed that I should tell you first. And then you made me nap. Again." Dick grinned to show Bruce that he held no hard feelings.

"So you should tell them."

"I don't . . . I'm not really sure how. I don't think I can get through all of those one-on-one conversations, phone or in person. It's not bad news but it's not exactly great news either, you know? And I can't send people a text." His smile, at least now, was more rueful than bitter.

"You can now. I picked this up from work today." Bruce placed Dick's own phone in his hand. "All the latest accessibility functions have been loaded and turned on. It also has an upgraded text-to-speech and speech-to-text program that is the next generation in natural language processing. It's also connected to," Bruce lowered his voice, "the Bat-computer AI, so you should find it very fast and reliable."

Dick turned the phone over in his hands. "I've been a bit frustrated by the touch screen," he admitted. "I thought I might need to get one with buttons."

"No need. Now, unlock it and drag a finger along the screen."

Dick did so, and the phone announced each icon's name as he touched it. "Wow."

"Let me show you what else it can do."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favorited or followed this story! It brightens my day whenever I get a notification._

 _The title of this fic and each chapter is taken from the poem "History of the Night" by Jorge Luis Borges._

 _Come chat with me on Tumblr at blog/caramelmachete_


	9. Vertigo part 2

"I just spoke with Dr. Fielding, and she is going to release you tomorrow," Bruce announced, speaking directly to Dick, but knowing that Tim, Alfred, Cass, Damian and Jason were present and listening. "So Alfred will pack for you tonight, and soon as the paperwork is done tomorrow, one of us will drive you to the manor."

As soon as Bruce started talking, Tim knew that Bruce obviously hadn't consulted Alfred, or Babs, or, well, _anyone,_ about his plan. Not that the plan itself was bad - it was easily the most viable option - but Bruce should have presented it in a different way. Any other way at all. "If you tell him what you want, Alfred can also get your things from your apartment in Bludhaven . . ."

Bruce started to realize that everyone in the room was staring at him. "So Alfred will have your old room ready for you in the Manor . . . Why is everyone looking at me like that?"

"Don't ask me," Dick said cooly.

"Maybe it's cuz you just assumed Dick was going to come back to live in the Manor like he's a kid," Jason drawled. "If I'd known you were planning on starting a fight in front of the whole family, I'd've brought popcorn."

Tim bit his knuckle to stop from smiling.

"Frankly, I'm not sure why Father's proposal is a problem," Damian said. "Where else would Grayson go?"

"There's nothing wrong with my apartment in 'Haven," Dick said. "I spoke to Clancy just yesterday and she's been keeping an eye on it."

"I'm sure that you understand that it wouldn't be prudent for you to live on your own, at least initially," Bruce said.

Tim winced. Dick sat up straighter and took a deep breath, flushing dark enough that even his golden skin couldn't disguise the red creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. Tim braced for Dick's shout. But then Dick collapsed, shoulders drooping, and relaxed his hands. He turned his head down and away from Bruce before saying quietly, "You're right, of course. I'm obviously not ready to be independent." Forcing a smile onto his face, he turned to Alfred's general direction. "And I'm sure Alfred will be cooking wonderful meals."

"Quite right, Master Richard. I believe you've lost half a stone from this hospital food."

Tim knew he wasn't the only one in the family who picked up the brittle edges of Dick's smile, the forced cheer, but no one said anything.

XXXXXXXX

The next day, Tim hung out with Dick while Bruce and Alfred took care of the paperwork.

"Hey, can you hand me my tee shirt and jeans?" Dick asked.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Timmy, I am sure that I want to wear jeans. I've worn nothing more formal than sweat pants for almost two weeks now."

"No, I meant, shouldn't you wait for Alfred or Bruce?"

Dick rolled his eyes. "I can get dressed by myself. Haven't you ever pulled on pants and a shirt in the dark?"

Tim bit his lip. He probably shouldn't have said anything to begin with, but he had, so now he might as well finish. "I mean, get out of bed by yourself."

"Damn, mention dizziness twice a week ago and nobody ever leaves you alone," Dick muttered. "Okay, you can stand right next to me if it makes you feel better."

Without waiting for a reply, Dick got out of bed smoothly, but left a hand on the rail for a few extra seconds. Alfred had left his clothes neatly folded on the bed side table, and Tim handed them over wordlessly.

"Is the door closed?" Dick asked.

Tim glanced behind him. "Yes."

Dick changed without any problems then sat on the bed. Tim watched him critically, looking for any signs of dizziness or hesitation, but didn't see any. However, Dick had lost muscle mass from his days of relative immobility. Dick's fingers drummed on his knee.

To fill the awkward silence, Tim said, "Bruce found an orientation and mobility instructor who is able to come to the manor. I believe tomorrow is his first day."

"Does Bruce honestly think I need some specialist to teach me how to get around? Bruce himself taught me - taught all of us - how to fight blind. Situational awareness. Spatial recognition. Now he thinks I need a stranger to teach me how to walk around with a white cane?"

Tim considered the best response. "Secret identity stuff. We can't - you can't - hide at home forever, so you'll need a plausible reason that you can get around. And just holding the cane won't be enough. You'll have to use it correctly so nobody get suspicious." Privately, Tim thought that the Bat-training wouldn't help Dick avoid an unexpected obstacle on the ground.

Dick was quiet for a minute, then smiled. "Fine. If you could wear braces and use crutches for months to keep up your secret identity, I guess I can do this."

"Exactly."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Much later that same day, Tim watched from his perch on Dick's the bed in the Manor as his brother carefully walked around the room, re-familiarizing himself with the layout. A few times, Dick paused with his hand on the wall or a piece of furniture. It didn't have often or for long, but it was enough to confirm Tim's suspicions that Dick was still experiencing occasional vertigo. Rather than confronting Dick about it, Tim decided to have a quiet word with Alfred or Bruce to make sure Dick wasn't alone, even though he was out of the hospital. Dick had awoken from another nap, and Tim was hanging out with him before the rest of the family came over for movie night and patrol.

Dick walked over to Tim and sat next to him on the bed. "So, you going to be my babysitter for the day?" Dick bumped his shoulder against Tim's.

"I can't just hang out with my big bro on his first day home?" Tim protested.

Dick chuckled. "I don't mind. It's kind of nice, actually."

"But you want me to know that you know."

"I can't fool you, Tim. You and the rest of the family can babysit me as much as you want. I like the company."

"That how we show love in this family - we stalk because we care."

Dick snorted a laugh. "True. I really am fine, though."

"Fine' as in, coping exceptionally well with everything and feeling great, or, fine, as in, will not admit to any possible weakness, physical, mental or emotional?"

Dick just laughed again. "How about fine, as in, very good-looking and attractive?"

"You're not going to answer me, are you?" Tim asked.

"Nope," Dick replied, popping the p.

"It's just . . ." and then Tim couldn't think of how to say what he wanted to say. He sucked at this. Dick was the one who got everyone else to open up. So he leaned in to Dick's shoulder a little harder, and felt Dick lean back.

Tim stayed like that for several minutes, ignoring the tight curl of anxiety behind his sternum - Tim would watch Dick, they all would watch him and would catch him if he needed it - then stood up and gave Dick's hand a gentle tug.

"Come on, let's get downstairs for movie night," Tim said. "Are you sure you're okay with movies?"

Dick stood and allowed himself to be led out the door, his hand in the crook of Tim's elbow. "Don't worry about me; I'm going to choose all the movies. I'll only pick ones I've seen plenty of times before."

Tim groaned and turned in the direction of the elevator instead of the stairs. "You mean _Dumbo_ , don't you?"

"Maybe."

"How about _Big Top Pee Wee_?"

"I'm not going to spoil the surprise."

They bantered the rest of way to the theatre room.

XXXXXXXXX

Everyone in the family showed up for dinner and movie night before patrol. Dick requested pizza, and when Alfred protested, Dick cheerfully retorted that he was in the mood for either pizza or spaghetti with meatballs and tomato sauce, and no one wanted to be in the room the first time he attempted that. Alfred hummed in disapproval but begrudging agreement, Bruce tensed, but Tim and Jason laughed.

Dick grinned in the direction of his brothers. "It's okay to laugh. I made a joke."

Alfred looked mildly scandalized. Jason said, "It's not like Dick is the first person to use dark humor in this family."

Damian scoffed. "The only reason that I didn't laugh, Grayson, was because it was not funny."

"I'll work on that, Dami," Dick chuckled.

Ensuring Alfred's continual disapproval, Tim and Jason produced multiple two liter bottles of soda. Alfred made a giant salad, the pizzas arrived, and everyone found a seat and surface to eat off of as best they could in the crowded room.

Dick sat in the middle, legs tucked under him, with a tv tray in front. Tim and Damian sat on either side of him. Babs had her chair pulled as close as possible, with her pizza in her lap and her drink on the table. Steph and Cass were sitting on the floor in front of the tray tables, Bruce was next to Tim, and Jason and Alfred bookended the group on their own recliners.

Dick still hadn't chosen a movie, and kept suggesting more and more obscure movies about circuses. Babs laughed, Tim joined in with his own picks, and Damian's scowl of disapproval looked more than a little manufactured. The atmosphere in the room felt relaxed and even hopeful.

Then Dick knocked over one of the supersized cups of soda. The drink went everywhere, cascading off of the table in all directions. Getting a lap full of liquid and ice, Dick yelped and jumped. His knee hit the table, hard enough that the two other drinks also spilled. Even more soda soaked the couch and everyone sitting on it.

Dami hopped up and shouted for napkins. Babs had initially wheeled back in shock, but was now reaching out for Dick. Tim shoveled as much ice as he could into one of the cups, Alfred rushed forward with a towel, Steph and Cass tried to avoid the spill and stop it from spreading. For a room full of highly trained vigilantes, it was chaos.

After sitting still for a shocked second, icey liquid soaking his clothes, Dick jumped to his feet. This knocked the little table over, and it fell to the ground with a bang.

"Shit!" Dick tried to bend over to pick up the table, but swayed instead.

"Dammit, Dick, just stay still," Tim snapped. "Let us take care of it." He moved the table and fallen pizza out of the way.

Bruce had made it to Dick's side by now and reached out to grab him and steady him. Dick jumped at the unexpected contact, and tried to push himself out of Bruce's grasp. Bruce could have stopped him, but Tim could see the hesitation in Bruce's face. Bruce let go.

Dick took two steps away, swayed and almost without warning fell to the ground. Cass caught him, enough to soften his fall, but he still ended up hands and knees on the ground. Cass immediately backed away, reading something in his body language that made her wary of touching him. Tim rushed over, thinking that he'd spent the most time that day with Dick and maybe that familiarity would help.

"Everyone back up for a moment. Please." Tim sat next to Dick, but didn't touch him. "It's just me. Just Tim."

Dick drew a shuddering breath. "Tim?"

"Yeah, I'm right here."

Dick pushed himself back to sit on his heels, grimacing slightly. "I'm ok," he muttered.

"You're fine, Dick. It was just a spill and a table fell over. Nobody's hurt. Just wet."

"I'm ok," Dick said, louder this time. He picked his head up and flashed a bright grin around the room. "Sorry about that, everyone."

"Hey, let's get you changed into some dry pajamas, okay?" Tim breathed.

"Sure, Timmy. Great idea."

Tim and Bruce eased Dick to his feet, avoiding the worst of the spill, and Tim led Dick back to his room. Tim opened a few dresser drawers randomly until he found some pajamas, then handed them Dick, knowing better than to ask if his brother needed help.

"Sorry about that, Tim," Dick ventured tentatively as he changed.

"Nothing to be sorry about, Dick. Accidents happen."

"Not like that, not to me," Dick said so quietly, Tim almost didn't hear him.

"What did you say, Dick?"

"Nothing. I'm fine."

"Anyone can spill a drink, even acrobats," Tim said, forcing a note of joviality into his voice. Dick is not fine. Not even close to fine.

Perhaps realizing that his mask has slipped too far, Dick straightened and plastered on a grin. "I know, I know. I was a little . . . shaken before. But I'm good now. Let's go back down."

"Want another minute?" Tim asked, watching Dick closely. How much of Dick's good humor had been his natural optimism and resiliency, and how much was an act put on to reassure everyone else? This situation needed careful monitoring.

"Nah, really. I'm good." The grin tightened.

"Of course you are, bro," Tim assured him, letting Dick believe that Tim had been convinced. He knew he had to come up with some plan to help Dick. Even if it meant manipulating and lying to Dick and the rest of the family.


	10. Brave Consolation

Jason ducked out of the rain into the crowded coffee shop and dripped on the doormat for a minute while he looked for Tim. Tim had asked they meet, just the two of them, and suggested this particular place. Jason had never been in before, but it was almost exactly halfway between his current favorite safehouse and Tim's loft. Which meant that Tim knew about Jason's safehouse. Crap. Jason really liked that place, and didn't want to abandon it. Oh well, maybe he should keep it anyway. It's not like Tim wouldn't find out about any new ones.

He spotted Tim in the far back corner, back to the wall. Jason nodded his head to acknowledge him, ordered his own drink and took a seat against the other wall.

"I am really hoping - for your sake - that you have a good reason for meeting at this place instead of the Manor," Jason said as his greeting.

"Of course I did," Tim replied calmly. "I assume you got the schedule I emailed everyone?"

"Yes, you still want us to take turns babysitting Dickhead even though he's home now." He gave Tim a suspicious stare. "Though you didn't say why."

Tim raised one shoulder in a miniscule shrug. "I talked to him and he doesn't mind. He even said he liked it."

"You mean he actually admitted that he could use the help?"

"Not in so many words, no." Tim took a few large swallows of his giant coffee. "Has he said anything to you? About anything?"

"Of course not. Do you really think he would say something to me?"

"Dick's not going to admit weakness to anyone, but especially not me or Damian. Maybe Alfred, but only if Alfred forced him to. Maybe Bruce, but Bruce isn't exactly making himself easy to talk to recently. So it's either you or Babs."

Jason acknowledged the soundness of Tim's logic, but shook his head. "He hasn't really talked much to me at all, except about whatever book I'm reading."

"Hmmmm."

"So what aren't you telling me?" Jason demanded.

"Nothing. But if I was hiding something from you, I wouldn't admit it, so regardless of what is true, I know you won't believe me." Tim calmly drank more coffee.

"You didn't bring me here to talk about who isn't talking and ask me if I got an email. So spill."

"I want you to help me keep Dick as entertained as possible. Distract him."

"I don't think anything is going to distract him from the fact that he can't see."

"Maybe not, but I want to minimize brooding time."

Jason sipped his tea, considering. He knew from his own mental health challenges that denial wouldn't work forever, but it had only been two weeks since the fight with Clayface. Dick got bored so easily, was quite possibly the worst of any of them at dealing with a long convalescence, that Jason could see some benefit in trying to keep him diverted and amused.

"Okay, I can take him train surfing tonight. Did he do that thing with you when you were Robin - riding trains blindfolded?"

Tim's eyes widened in alarm fractionally, but he tamped down his expression almost instantly.

"What's wrong, Tim?" Jason mused. "You weren't a fan of that last idea, though it's something that should be well within his capabilities. He's done it before and I'd be with him."

Tim finished his coffee before he replied. "I've got an idea for an activity but it won't be ready until tomorrow. Can you read some more for today? Just keep him company."

Jason shrugged. "Of course. But only if you tell me what was wrong with my train idea."

Tim hesitated for a moment, looking into his empty coffee mug and frowning as if he was dismayed that it was empty. "So you haven't noticed anything wrong with Dick?"

"Besides the obvious? Brain injury isn't enough?"

Tim narrowed his eyes at Jason. "Yes, Jason. Besides the obvious," he said, enunciating each syllable.

Jason thought about it. "He's pretending that he's coping, but at least some of it is an act."

"I agree, but I also think he's lying about his symptoms. Or rather, lack of symptoms."

"Which is why you don't want him train hopping. You're not sure what he's hiding."

"Vertigo for sure," Tim supplied quickly, making Jason frown. _Yeah, the trains are definitely out._ "I'm not sure what else," Tim added.

"Okay, so what are we going to do about it?"

Tim's lips curved upward into a sharp smile, no teeth, and his eyes gleamed. _He looks like an evil villain when he does that_ , Jason thought. _Sure glad he's on our side._

"Well, this what I want you to do . . ."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Jason didn't come up with the plan, but he did come up with the name. Okay, not the official name, but the only name that Jason was planning to acknowledge: Operation Stop Dickface From Being a Self-Sacrificing Idiot.

He wasn't sure about the entirety of the plan. Tim could very well be involving other members of the family, either openly or just moving them around like chess pieces. Jason's role though was clear - distract and entertain Dick. Tim had a few ideas, and Jason would come up with some too.

Jason arrived at the manor before Dick's final morning rehabilitation session ended, so Jason took the opportunity to spend time with Alfred.

"How's Dick today?" Jason asked as he rummaged through the fridge for a snack. The manor wasn't Jason's favorite place to be, but the kitchen with Alfred was an exception.

"I haven't seen much of him, I'm afraid. Are you looking for something in particular?"

"Food. So what's he been up to?"

"Three different appointments - O and M, speech pathology, visual rehab. Here, have some almonds."

Jason closed the fridge, accepted the almonds with a quiet thank you, and sat at the kitchen island. He had general ideas what each of those things was, but not exact. He would look it up later.

"What's next on the schedule? Tim just told me to get here at noon."

"Lunch - so if you don't fill yourself up on almonds, I can easily make you some too - then he absolutely must rest."

"Any more sessions today?"

"No, we're only doing three hours a day this first week home."

Jason looked at the whiteboard calendar newly installed on the wall, Alfred's precise print notating different sessions. Neuropsychologist. Physical therapy. Occupational therapy. "Has he been cleared for exercise yet?"

"Not yet, I'm afraid. One would hope it shall be soon. I'm sure it will be relief to us all when Master Dick can work out," Alfred said, a slight deepening of the wrinkles around his eyes signalling a smile. "Himself especially, of course."

"I'm sure he's getting rather stir crazy. I'm here for the new couple of hours to help keep him entertained, then Damian. Tim has something fun planned for tomorrow."

"Excellent news indeed, Master Jason. All of you giving Master Richard so much support. I am really quite proud."

Jason ducked his head to hide his blush, despite knowing that Alfred saw it anyway. "You're the one that's organized all of this, I'm sure," he said, waving his hand at the calendar.

"I've assisted with scheduling, but Master Bruce and Master Tim have done most of the research for the best people. And Miss Gordon has been instrumental in securing some of the therapists who aren't local, organizing leaves of absence along with sizable donations to their home instruments so that they can be available to come to Gotham."

Jason looked once more at the schedule in some awe. "Why so many different kinds of therapy?"

"Some are specific to Master Dick's needs regarding the loss of his sight, but the rest are standard after a brain injury of this type. Normally one would spend time in a residential rehabilitation program, but Master Bruce was keen to bring everything here."

"Well, let me know what I can do to help."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Jason let Dick take his arm, the way the whole family had been shown in the hospital, and led Dick out through the manor's back door, past the covered outdoor pool and towards the back lawn and ornamental lake. They walked on a pristine gravel path, and even though Jay knew that Alfred would never let it go unmaintained, he kept on the lookout for any potholes or trip hazards.

"What does Tim have planned?" Dick asked.

"I don't know. It's a surprise for me too," Jason answered as they continued away from the house. After they completed a small curve along an elegant group of trees, Jason laughed. "Though now I have an idea."

"What?"

"Tim and Damian are waiting for us in a golf cart. A bright red four-seater golf cart with a cooler and 1980s style boom box strapped to it."

Dick frowned in confusion. "We don't have a golf course. If we are where I think I am, this is the back lawn below the house by the lake."

"You're right."

"Does Bruce even have a golf cart?"

Dick and Jason were close enough now to their brothers that Tim answered. "No, I have a golf cart. Bruce is just letting me keep it here."

"Does Father know that?" Damian demanded, bristling.

"No, but Alfred does, and that's good enough for me," Tim said, and Damian subsided.

"Why is it red?" Jason said, poking the hood suspiciously. It was a good paint job, but Jason would bet his favorite semi-automatic that the cart hadn't originally been the color of a fire truck. The vertical bars that supported the roof had contrasting yellow stripes of color, and the edges of the seats and floor also had bright yellow stripes. Dick let go of Jason's arm when Jason stopped, and was carefully exploring the cart's perimeter, one hand on the roof.

"Custom paint job," Tim replied, puffing up his chest and grinning.

"But you did not answer Todd's original question," Damian said. "Why?"

"To give me a chance of seeing it," Dick answered.

Tim nodded, then visibly kicked himself and said, "Yes."

Jason watched the way that Dick moved around the cart, cleared his throat, and asked, "So, um, can you?" Jason was pretty sure he knew the answer, though.

Dick cocked his head, one hand still on the cart's roof. He slowly moved his gaze around, even moving his whole head. Finally he shrugged. "Kind of."

"Explain," Damian said. Tim jabbed Damian in the ribs. "Please."

"At the exact right angle, I can see a giant red blur, but it's faded - almost greyed out. I can tell that everything else is not red. That's about it." He sighed, and shrugged again. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize to us, Dickie," Jason said. His job was to distract and entertain, and this was definitely not part of the plan.

Damian had not read the memo. "I thought you told Father you could see light. How does that work?" Jason thought about kicking the demon-spawn.

Dick bit his lip. He was silent for so long that Jason almost asked Tim about the golf cart's stereo in a desperate bid to change the subject. "Have you ever laid out in bright sunlight with your eyes closed? You can tell when someone walks in front of you and blocks the sun for a moment. It's like that. I'm not _seeing_ the light. More like perceiving it's absence or presence."

Everyone was silent as they absorbed this information. Jason remembered lying on the beach of Kori's island, the feeling of knowing when the sun went behind a small cloud just from the change of the sensation of brightness through his closed eyelids. Yeah, Jason wouldn't exactly call that seeing, either. Was that what Dick experienced? The absence or presence of light and a few blurry, dim colors?

Jason shook himself. "Right," he said. "So Tim, tell me what you had in mind for this golf cart."

Tim rallied. "Okay, so I set up -"

Damian interrupted, " _We_ set up."

" _Damian and I_ set up," Tim continued smoothly, "traffic cones, plastic trash cans and other light obstacles all over the lawn. We are going to take turns guiding Dick as the driver around the obstacle course in pairs. Hitting something is a point. The pair with the least points wins."

"Is this timed?" Jason asked.

"No, I don't want to encourage speed. This is all about accuracy. And I brought a blindfold, so if anyone else wants to try driving, he can."

Dick laughed. "You can't be serious?" he wheezed. "You want me to drive a golf cart around the lawn while you three shout directions at me?"

"Well, yes, but only one of us will be allowed to shout at a time," Damian replied seriously.

This made Dick laugh even harder. Jason looked at his brother with some concern as the laughter edged towards the maniacal.

"You alright there, Dickie?" Jason said.

Dick took a deep breath and leaned against the cart's roof, hung his head and huffed out another breath of air. "Yeah, I'm fine." He wiped a tear away from his eye - from genuine laughter or something darker Jason didn't know - but smiled like he had turned Monday into Friday. "Let's do this."

From his earlier circumnavigation of the cart, Dick walked smoothly around to the driver's seat and sat down.

"Let Tim go first, since this was his idea," Jason said and took a seat behind Dick. Damian glowered but sat down next to Jason.

Tim slid into the front. "You two in the back - you are responsible for keeping track of the number of times we hit things. I have snacks in the cooler. And I feel like I should mention this - just so that I can say that I did - but I have a helmet for Dick here."

Dick punched Tim in the shoulder. "Only a weirdo would wear a motorcycle helmet when not riding a motorcycle."

"Hey!" Jason said. "I know you can't see me, but I am _right here!_ "

"Ignore him, Grayson. You may proceed," Damian said.

"At least put on your seatbelts, or I'm telling Alfred," Tim said.

Everyone buckled up and Tim conferred with Dick quietly, discussing strategy.

"Ready?" Dick called and Jason could hear the grin in his voice. Without waiting for a response, Dick floored the gas pedal.

"Straight! Slow down! Right, 2 o'clock," Tim called.

"What did you say these obstacles were, Timmy?" Dick asked oh so casually and Jason wished desperately for a grab bar. Or a beer.

"Hard left - 9 o'clock! Traffic cones. Now straighten! Twelve o'clock. Rubber trash cans. Brake! Plastic fence poles. Right. Pool noodles."

"So nothing that would really hurt the golf cart if I crashed?" Dick asked and sped up. Tim continued to cry directions.

Jason laughed. "You've already taken down two cones."

"This is why I insisted we leave the speed inhibitor in the motor," Damian said calmly. "Three cones."

"Tim, when you came up with this plan, you did remember that Dick is a frickin' adrenaline junky?" Jason snarked.

There was a thud. "That was a trash can. Empty, fortunately," Damian reported.

Jason leaned forward so he could see Dick's face. His eyes were narrowed, head tilted slightly towards Tim, but he was smiling.

"Pool noodle," Damian said.

"Stop!" Tim yelled. "That's the end of the course!"

Dick stopped and turned back to Jason and Damian. "How did Tim do?"

"Five points."

Dick grinned evilly. "Who's next?"

"Me," Jason said. "Demon brat can go last."

Tim and Jason switched places. "I'm going to go faster this time," Dick said.

"Don't be a dick, Dick. This is not a speed test," Jason grumbled.

"But this is the most fun I've had in weeks!" Dick started to drive.

Jason sighed. "Okay, straight. A little bit left! More left!"

Thump! They rolled right over a traffic cone. "No! Straight!"

"This is straight!" Dick protested but laughed.

"Two!" Damian said.

"No it's not! Right! Right now, wait a minute, okay-"

Thonk as they clipped a trash can hard. "Three!" Tim shouted between peals of laughter.

"Straight, then left, right."

"Pick one!"

"Slow down!"

Dick eased his foot off of the gas, but they ran into a plastic fence post.

"Four!" Tim said.

"Shit!" Jason said. "I said left!"

"No, you said right!"

"Just straighten up. More straight!"

Dick yanked the steering wheel to center but it was too late. They clipped another trash cash.

"Five!" Damian said.

"There's a noodle right there!" Jason said, pointing.

"Six!" Damian and Tim said in unison.

Dick slowed to a crawl, probably because he was laughing too hard to drive.

"Did you point?! Because somehow I have a feeling that you pointed, Little Wing." Dick pulled Jason in for a sideways hug and Jason let him.

"Fine. Maybe I pointed a bit. Force of habit," Jason groused, but he couldn't help but chuckle too. "Just slowly go straight and we'll be nearly back where we started."

"That was a pathetic performance, Todd. I expected better from you," Damian said as he dragged Jason out of the front seat and away from Dick.

"So what's the plan, Little D?" Dick asked.

"Right. Turn this vehicle in a complete 180."

"Sure. Tell me if I overshoot."

"Stop. Now proceed straight for several seconds at a moderate speed, then turn right 15 degrees on my mark."

"Got it."

"Mark. Now return to center."

Dick straightened the wheel.

"Slow. There are several obstacles close together. 25 degrees left . . . straight . . . now 45 degrees right . . . now back to center . . . 30 degrees left . . . good."

In this fashion, Damian and Dick proceeded across the field without hitting a single object.

"Okay, that was slightly freaky," Jason stated.

"Not at all. Perfect communication and trust, Todd," Damian said. "Now, I believe this occasion calls for a fist bump."

"You need to be my seeing eye dog, Dami." Dick raised a fist and Damian bumped it lightly with his own. "So what do we win for our victory?"

"Bragging rights," Jason said flatly.

"Now I want one of you to try it blindfolded," Dick said, but he yawned and sagged against his seat. Jason eyed him with concern, noting the tightness and pain lines around his eyes and mouth, despite the relaxed smile.

"They'll be time for that another day. You don't need to push yourself," Jason said.

Maybe there were worse things to say, but what Jason said must have been pretty bad. Immediately, Dick's face shuttered, grin sliding down into a grimace.

"Actually, Jay, I do." Dick unbuckled and stood up, lines of his shoulders and back taut. "Someone take me back to the manor."

"Dick, don't take it like that. You know what Jason meant. Trade places with Damian and let's take the cart back to the Manor," Tim soothed.

Damian got out, silently switched spots with Dick, and started the drive back up the path.

Jason knew that he'd screwed up, but it had seemed like such an innocuous comment. He ran his hand through his hair and said, "Dick, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply . . . anything. I just thought maybe you were a bit tired."

Some of the tightness in Dick's shoulders drained away. "I know, Jay. Just maybe let me make those calls?"

Jason couldn't really promise that. Dick's judgement and decision-making were still questionable, on top of his existing trait of always wanting to push himself. Still, probably not the best idea right now to remind Dick that cognitively and emotionally, he was still recovering. "I'll try, Dickie," Jason said.

The rest of Dick's tension vanished, and he turned around to face in Tim's direction. "Thanks, Timmy. This really was a great idea."

"No problem, Dick," Tim said, but he caught Jason's eye. Jason nodded at his replacement, for once not feeling any resentment or anger. Operation Stop Dickface From Being A Self-Sacrificing Idiot was far from over.

 **Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, followed or favorited this story! It means so much to me. Constructive criticism is welcome.**


	11. Fragile Instruments

After driving the golf cart back to the Manor, Damian signalled Drake to hang back as Todd escorted Grayson inside.

As soon as the door closed, Damian turned to Drake. "I want in."

Drake raised his eyebrows. "In on what, exactly?"

"Don't play games with me, Drake. I know you and Todd are conspiring about Grayson. Don't even attempt to dissemble; it won't work. So I repeat, I want in."

Drake scrutinized Damian, then nodded, and Damian knew that he'd passed some kind of test. "Yeah, you're right. Let's stay out here and I'll fill you in." It was Drake's business voice - cool and professional.

They took a seat on a bench. Damian remained outwardly calm, but he dug his nails into the palm of his hand further away from Drake. When Drake didn't say anything immediately, Damian growled, "Just tell me."

"This shouldn't come as a surprise for you, but Dick isn't as cheerful and accepting of all of this as he seems. I mean, we all have seen glimpses of his frustration, but he's hiding even more. I think he's really struggling."

"I agree that he's putting on a brave face, but that's admirable, isn't it?"

"Not if he's hiding symptoms. Not if he's being dishonest - to himself, to his doctors, to us - about his recovery." Tim sounded emotional for this first time in the conversation.

"But he will recover. That is my understanding - that his eyesight and everything else will return to normal." Damian couldn't quite conceal his bewilderment.

"Okay, so the eye doctors talked to Dick, then Dick talked to Bruce, then Bruce talked to all of us individually," Tim had his business voice firmly back in place. "We don't know exactly what the doctors actually said to Dick. I know Dick put a positive spin on things, and it's very possible that he is choosing, unconsciously or not, to focus on the positive. But I've researched this extensively. With his specific diagnosis, yes, there is a chance that his vision will improve. Improve, not recover completely. A very, very, slim chance."

"I too have read studies. I thought the odds were more than decent, and we have resources far beyond the average patient."

Tim nodded. "For cortical blindness across all possible causes, yes. However, cortical blindness caused by head injury does not have good odds at all. Negligible, really."

Damian studied the ground below his feet, feeling a surge of anger so white hot that it took all of his control not to shout. Anger at Clayface. At Grayson and Father for lying. Even at Drake for finally telling the truth.

"Look, Damian, try not to be too angry at Dick. I don't think he deliberately lied to us. I'm sure that, right now, he needs to believe in the possibility of a full recovery. He has to think that he's going to be one of the lucky ones. And he has the other symptoms and effects of a brain injury to deal with. It's up to us - his family - to have his back."

Damian forced himself to think logically and acknowledge the truth of Drake's words. He concentrated on slowing the pounding of his heart, calming the tide of emotions churning behind his sternum.

When he felt that he could once again keep his voice even, he asked, "What do you need me to do?"

"A couple of things," Tim said, giving Damian a small but approving smile. Damian felt another burst of anger - he didn't need to be coddled or patronized - but reminded himself that all Drake wanted was to help Grayson. Grayson could be an idiot; he needed all the help he could get. It was Damian's job as Robin if nothing else.

Tim had waited to continue, as if he was aware of Damian's internal struggle. When Damian met Drake's eyes, he went on. "First, you've been taking your turn to spend time with Dick along with the rest of the family. So far, it hasn't been too difficult to make sure Dick rests. That's going to get more difficult as he continues to recover. Make sure you don't leave him alone. Try to keep him entertained, but don't let him do anything stupid."

"I can do that."

"Second thing. I want you to watch him very carefully. If you notice anything odd, like he's trying to hide a symptom, or he's dizzy, let me know. If it's urgent, tell Alfred. "

Damian gave Drake a hard stare. "You truly think he needs this."

Tim sighed, broke eye contact. "Yes. Unfortunately, yes, I do. That injury wasn't something he can just bounce back from, as much as Dick is trying to pretend that it is."

Damian studied Tim for another moment. "Your plan is acceptable."

Tim grinned sardonically. "I'm glad it meets with your approval. Now let's get inside. It's getting way too cold out here to sit on a stone bench."

The next morning, Damian worked on his home study lessons while Dick had three different therapy sessions. Damian would have sat in on them if he'd been allowed to, but Pennyworth insisted he do homework instead. Damian had neglected his schooling while Dick was in the hospital.

After the last therapy session, Father returned from work to join them for lunch.

"This is unexpected, Father," Damian said as Alfred served Father then Damian.

Alfred set a plate in front of Grayson. "Fingerling potatoes at 2 o'clock, salad at 10, vegetarian quiche in the bottom half," the butler said quietly.

"Thanks, Alfred," Grayson replied.

Father waited until the interaction between Pennyworth was complete, opened his mouth to talk, saw Grayson slowly walk his fingertips across the tablecloth to find the water glass, and stopped awkwardly.

"You can stop watching me," Grayson said mildly. When both Damian and Father looked at him, he gave a wry smile. "I'm not planning on spilling anything today."

Bruce cleared his throat and smoothed the napkin on his lap. Everyone started to eat in silence. Damian would catch himself watching Grayson, then he'd snap his gaze up to his brother's face or drop down to look at his own food. He didn't know why he was so interested. Grayson was performing more than adequately. He'd practiced with one of his instructors, that was obvious.

After Damian had finished half of his lunch, Father finally broke the quiet.

"Damian is correct; I hadn't planned on coming home for lunch. However, I received a call from my PR consultant, Ainsley. She's been getting calls from Summer Gleeson - you know, the reporter - the last couple of days. Summer has a story and she's going to move forward with it. However, she has asked for a statement. We need to think about what we want to say."

"A story about Grayson?" Damian asked.

"Yes. Summer has sources at the hospital, according to Ainsley."

Damian slammed his fist on the table hard enough to make his silverware rattle. That ridiculous reporter, scamming her way past health privacy laws, probably bribing orderlies and nurses and stealing sealed records. His hand itched for his sword.

"So Summer probably has a good idea of what happened and my . . . current condition," Grayson said. He stopped eating and gripped his knife hard enough that his knuckles whitened, but kept his voice level.

"Yes, that is the conclusion I came to," Father said. "What do you want me to say? Or I could have Ainsley put out a formal statement. I'm not expecting you to agree to an interview or anything, but how do you want to spin things?" Father took another bite of the quiche.

"Spin things?" Dick repeated. "Spin? How exactly do you propose we spin this, Bruce?" The frown on Grayson's face was more than enough indication that Father should think carefully about his next response.

Father chewed and swallowed another bite before replying, his tone calm and seemingly unaware of the minefield around him. "I meant, we could find out what exactly she knows and confirm it or correct it. We could just tell the truth. However, my suggestion would be to leave it vague. Recovering at home from an accident, expected to make a full recovery, that kind of thing."

"Is that what you believe? Really? Full recovery?" A pulse beat in Dick's temple, but his voice remained controlled. Barely.

"If that is what you are working towards, that is what we should say."

"Of course that's what I am working towards!" Dick snapped. "But that doesn't mean it's what I'm going to get. I want to know what _you_ really believe."

"I just want to know how you would prefer us to handle Summer. I want to tell her whatever you are comfortable with," Father said calmly.

"You said we could tell Summer the truth, or we could tell her I am expected to make a full recovery. That implies that you think that me making full recovery is not the truth."

For the first time, Father sounded angry. "Don't twist my words. I'd like to know your preference about what to say to Summer, and we can talk about your prognosis at a more appropriate time."

"Right now seems more than appropriate to me, Bruce. It's basically the longest time you've spent in the same room with me since the movie night."

Damian stood. "Grayson, let's just figure out how to deal with that . . . _female_ . . . first, then we can talk about whatever you want."

Dick stood as well and turned towards Bruce, one hand still on the table, clutching his napkin. "Tell her I'm blind. Tell her I'm brain damaged. Tell her whatever you want. Just leave me alone until you want to actually talk with me."

At first glance, Father looked impassive, but Damian could read his subtle tells and see the carefully hidden turmoil. It was the face of a man who knew he needed to say something to salvage the situation, but had no idea what. Dick would have been able to see it too, perhaps even more clearly than Damian. But now, as far as Dick was concerned, Bruce wasn't reacting at all.

After a few seconds ticked by and Father still didn't reply, Dick made a frustrated noise and dropped his napkin back on the table. "Dami, let's go."

Damian shot a glance towards his father, sitting with hands clenched against the pristine table cloth. Damian hurried to Grayson's side and held out his arm. Dick grabbed his arm with a bit more force than was strictly necessary. "Want to go my room? Jason downloaded _Treasure Island_ yesterday."

Damian made eye contact with Father and lifted one shoulder in a tiny shrug, silently asking _what else would you have me do?_ Father nodded and glanced to the door - _go ahead._ Damian wordlessly led his brother upstairs.

Grayson crawled into his bed and collapsed with a sigh. Damian pulled a chair over to the bed and grabbed the tablet Jason had bought for Dick just over two weeks ago. Damian smoothed his finger down the side of the device, remembering when everyone had been worried that Grayson wouldn't be able to talk fluidly again, or walk, or use both his right and left hands. That he would continue to struggle to retain information from conversation to conversation. The worries hadn't even been about the worst case scenarios - those outcomes had actually been more probable than the excellent recovery Grayson was making in nearly every area. Except his sight.

Grayson still had some challenges. He had some minor but persistent cognitive deficits, his left hand wasn't as coordinated as his right, occasional tinnitus, he experienced difficulty concentrating and emotional challenges. Damian knew all of that. But his brother talked and walked. Understood things. Remembered. Damian wanted to tell Summer Gleeson to leave Grayson the hell alone. He was doing so _well_. Everyone assured the family that Grayson would continue to improve. The last thing he needed was speculation on what exactly had been lost. What might never come back.

"Sorry you had to see that, Lil D."

"Tt. Father was being an ass."

"Still, I shouldn't have said anything in front of you."

"You and Father shout at each other occasionally; that's hardly a secret. You've even done it in front of me before. Why does it bother you now?"

Grayson dug his fingers into his pillow and squeezed. "I just don't know why I got so upset, so quickly."

Damian hesitated for a moment, but diplomacy was not part of his primary skill set. "Emotional outbursts and mood swings are to be expected after your kind of injury. Father is aware of this."

Grayson made a disgusted face. "Thanks, Dami. I know. It's just that . . . well, I've always had a temper, but 99% of the time I could control it, and now I just get so frustrated."

Dami reached over and awkwardly patted his brother on the shoulder. Grayson relaxed slightly and buried his face in the pillow.

"Should I read?" Damian asked.

Grayson nodded, and Damian read _Treasure Island_ out loud until his brother fell asleep.

Damian read articles on brain injury recovery while Grayson napped, and put the tablet aside when Grayson stirred and stretched.

"How long have I been asleep?" he asked.

"An hour or so."

Grayson sat up and scrubbed his hands across his face. "Are you my babysitter for the rest of the day?"

"Officially until 3 p.m., when Brown will come by after class, but I have no other conflicts until patrol."

Grayson gave a bright smile, bright enough that Damian immediately felt suspicious. "Great. Let's go for a run."

"You are not allowed to do that yet," Damian said sternly.

"I'm bored," Grayson whined.

"I realize that, but we must find a suitable activity." Damian glanced at the window. "It is an exceptionally warm and sunny day for this time of year. Would a walk be an acceptable substitute?

Grayson pouted but agreed.

"Should I get your cane?" Damian asked, looking around for it.

"No, not right now," Dick said, deliberately casual.

"You need to practice with it."

"I know, but right now I just want to enjoy time with my littlest brother." Grayson reached over and pulled Damian into a rough embrace and rubbed his knuckles into Damian's scalp.

Damian allowed this because he was pleased by how unerringly Grayson had grabbed him. "You're an idiot. Let's go."

Grayson released him and Damian tried to smooth his hair back into some semblance of order.

"Let's walk to the cliffs," Grayson suggested as they headed out of the bedroom. "Bring Titus if you want."

"As you wish." Damian called his dog who bounded up to them with pure joy, and Damian found himself looking forward to the walk. It was easily the nicest day since the encounter with Clayface, the sun shining brightly as if in defiance of the coming winter. After days of overcast gloom and drizzle, Damian was eager to spend some time outside in the pleasant autumn air.

He opened the door, let Titus leap out first, and then led Grayson out into the brilliant early afternoon.

Grayson cried out, squeezed his eyes shut and flung an arm up to cover them.

"What's wrong?" Damian demanded.

"Too bright." Grayson's forehead was drawn in pain.

"I didn't . . ." Damian trailed off. Didn't think, he completed mentally. Forgot that Grayson's eyes still worked and the sudden transition from the dim manner to sparkling daylight might be too much; forgot the warnings about increased photosensitivity. Damian had told Grayson that it was bright outside, but Grayson had no way of knowing just how bright. Damian had failed to fully appreciate the situation and adequately manage it or inform Grayson. "Let's go back inside."

Grayson shook his head, stubborn as always. "Just grab me some sunglasses. I'll wait here."

Damian hesitated. Titus circled back towards them instead of running ahead, as if even the Great Dane sensed that something was amiss.

"Please," Dick said, and despite the word choice, his tone was a demand, not a request.

"I'll be right back," Damian said and darted inside.

When he returned with some sunglasses, Grayson had both hands covering his eyes. He accepted the glasses and seemed to relax once they were on. "I'm ready. Let's go."

Damian bit his lip before realizing what he doing and forced himself to stop. He let Grayson take his arm and they headed towards the path that led towards the coast. The sighted guide technique they used had Dick about a half step behind him, so he had to awkwardly look over his shoulder to get a good view of Grayson's face. Damian was frustrated between dividing his attention between observing Grayson and making sure that the ground ahead was smooth and they were still on course. They continued like this for some time before Grayson slowed, which made Damian look between his brother and the path even more frequently.

Grayson could obviously feel Damian twisting every couple of steps. "You're staring at me again."

"You look like you're in pain." It was true. Grayson face was pale and his features strained, lines around his eyes visible even behind the sunglasses, lips pressed tight together.

"A bit of a headache."

"Your efforts to hide your discomfort are pitifully inadequate, which means either you're really not trying very hard or you are actually in more pain than you are able to fully disguise."

Grayson stopped. "Maybe more like a migraine," he admitted.

"Even with the sunglasses, it's still too bright. Maybe if you'd had them on from the beginning, but this is the first non-cloudy day, and I didn't realize how bright is too bright."

Dick shrugged.

"The sunglasses aren't enough, are they?"

"They're helping . . . some," Grayson said reluctantly.

"We are going back," Damian said, and knew he'd made the right decision when Grayson didn't argue.

By the time they reached the manor, Grayson was clearly in even more pain, gripping Damian's arm hard. Damian led him back up to his bedroom, calling to Pennyworth on the way. Pennyworth fussed and tutted but brought painkillers and water, and helped Damian get Grayson's shoes off and tucked up into bed.

"That pill might make you sleep, Master Richard, and that is probably the best thing for you right now," Pennyworth said crisply.

Grayson nodded in agreement. "Lil D, can you stay?"

"Of course," Damian said and moved to take his place in the chair once more, but then thought of a better plan and kicked his own shoes off. He climbed into bed next to Grayson. "You may cuddle me but don't think I am rewarding you for hurting yourself. I expect you to make a better decision next time." Even though Damian had let him walk outside on such a sunny day without suitable eye protection in the first place. "You were a stubborn fool to persist, and you should say something immediately next time."

"Sure thing," Grayson chuckled, draping his arm over Damian. Titus jumped up onto the bed and curled up on Grayson's other side. Soon Grayson's breathing slowed and steadied, and Damian knew that the painkiller was working. Damian allowed himself to relax. He could feel his own drowsiness creeping up on him. Once he was sure that Grayson was asleep, Damian gave in to the urge to nap as well.

Damian slowly came to awareness in the desert. He took three uncertain steps across the shifting sand. He was at the base of a large dune, and scrambled up on hands and knees, the sand sliding back down almost as fast as he could climb. The punishing sun heated his black hair until it was like a cap of coals, hot and heavy on his head. The solar rays beat down his back. Damian felt the sweat soak through his shirt and drip down his forehead. He stopped to wipe it away and the slipping sand forced him back down a few inches. He started climbing again, each hand and food sinking deep into the sand and fighting against being released.

Finally he made it to the top of the dune, and with the crazy logic of dreams, he realized it was now pitch dark night as he struggled to his feet. Damian tried to see where he was, but without a single star visible in the sky and only the faintest hint of moonlight, he couldn't get his bearings. The cold night breeze chilled his damp shirt and he shivered. Against his will, a tendril of panic wormed its way from his belly up through his chest and he shivered again. Damian didn't want to admit it, but he was completely disoriented. His heart beat faster and he couldn't calm down enough to reason out what he should do next. The panic grew and flexed and Damian grasped at his faint realization that it was only a dream.

Suddenly, he was awake. He must not have actually said anything out loud, since Grayson still slumbered next to him. Damian looked across to Titus. The dog shifted then settled.

Damian knew that he had to do something. Drake had been correct - Grayson was struggling, that much was clear. And both Father and Grayson seemed to be losing hope that his eyesight would recover. Or rather, Grayson desperately wanted Father to provide reassurance, while Father was unable or unwilling to do so. Grayson needed help now.

Damian slowly sat up, careful not to wake either his brother or his dog. Grayson stirred and Titus huffed quietly and pressed himself closer to Grayson, so Grayson flung an arm across the dog. Both stilled then, and neither one woke up.

Looking at the two snuggled close on the giant bed, Damian felt an idea prick the edges of his subconscious. No matter how much it pained him to admit it, even silently to himself, Grayson was blind and it most likely permanent. Damian sat with that realization for a moment, letting it become solid. Damian allowed it etch itself into reality as he watched Titus and Grayson sleep. Grayson was blind . . . And then his idea coalesced: blind people had seeing eye dogs. Damian grinned and grabbed the tablet. He had some research to do and some inquiries to make.

A little while later, Brown knocked gently on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer. Damian glared at her from his position, propped against the headboard, Dick and Titus curled up next to him.

"This is the most adorable thing I have ever seen," Steph whispered.

"Go away, Fatgirl," Damian hissed.

"It's my turn!" Steph protested, but at least she made an effort to keep quiet.

"Grayson is sleeping." Grayson hadn't even stirred. That particular med always knocked him out.

"I can see that." Brown pulled out her phone and took a couple of pictures. Damian glowered and contemplated whether or not he was too mature to stick out his tongue. Or flip her off.

"Migraine. It may have been partially my fault. Go away."

Steph narrowed her eyes at Damian. "Fine," she snapped after a moment of scrutiny.

Steph walked away but left the door open. Damian was trying to decide if he should risk getting up to close it when Drake appeared.

"Like I told your ex, go away," Damian growled. Softly.

"Steph told me that you gave Dick a migraine," Drake accused. Titus woke up enough to stare at Drake.

"Not like that," Damian said, rolling his eyes. He was surrounded by fools. "We went for a walk, and I failed to ensure that he was wearing sunglasses before we went outside."

Tim frowned, still stern, before visibly relaxing. He deliberately changed his stance to look less confrontational. "You couldn't have known."

"Nevertheless, I should have," Damian said. "Now go away before you wake him up."

Tim sighed, studied them for a moment, before smiling slightly. "Steph did also say that you were adorable, and she was right."

Damian threw a pillow at him.

"Alright, alright. Leaving now." Tim backed away and shut the door.

"This is not adorable," Damian whispered to Titus. "We are merely ensuring that Grayson gets the best possible rest."

Titus wagged his tail twice in agreement.

"Animals have many proven benefits to both physical and mental health," Damian told the dog, and went back to his research.


	12. Rage, Rage

Dick woke to his face pressed against short, smooth fur, and the unmistakeable smell of dog. Not unpleasant - at least it was clean dog - but distinct. He also heard measured breathing and a warm presence at this back. Damian. For a moment, he couldn't figure out why Titus and Damian were in his bed. Then he remembered the migraine.

"Hi, Damian," Dick said as he sat up slowly, waited for the wave of vertigo to pass, and stretched.

"How are you feeling?"

"Great. The meds and nap worked."

Damian didn't immediately respond, and Dick guessed that Damian was studying him for any signs of discomfort or dishonesty, but he was really pain-free.

"You've slept most of the afternoon. Dinner is in an hour," Damian finally said.

"Did you stay with me this whole time? You didn't have to."

"Pay it no heed. I have been working on a project of my own and made excellent progress."

"What project?"

"I'll tell you when it's nearer to completion. For now, Drake and Brown requested your presence in Drake's room when you awoke, but only if you are feeling completely well."

"I told you already, I'm fine," Dick said, allowing a hint of exasperation to color his voice.

"Very well. Let's go. Do you want to take my arm?"

"No, thanks. I can get to Timmer's room." Dick had no problem moving around his own room, and Tim's room was only a couple of doors down. He suppressed some irritation at even being asked.

Dick made his way to Tim's room without hesitation, and shot a triumphant grin at Damian as he opened the door and stepped inside.

Dick liked the Clash. He liked them quite a lot - enough to know all of the words to "London Calling" in fact - but something about the change from the near-silent hallway to Tim's room, where the song was playing loudly, made the vertigo that he was firmly in denial about come flooding back. He took a couple of staggering steps into the room, more on autopilot than as a conscious decision, as he felt the room spin around him like an amusement park ride. He thought maybe he should leave, but before he could orientate himself enough to turn around, rising nausea churned his gut.

"Tim. Bathroom!" he gasped and headed in the direction he knew Tim's en suite was. He hoped there wasn't any random chairs or other obstacles in the way. He was dizzy enough that tripping over even something small would no doubt send him to the floor.

He heard Tim say something, Steph's voice joining after a second, but he had no attention to spare for them. He stepped on something that felt like clothing to his socked feet, and Tim turned the music off, but somehow that made the vertigo even worse. He was sure that he wasn't going to make it, but then he felt Damian's small hand in his own and just in time he was kneeling in front of the toilet.

When he was done, and sitting up shakily, someone placed a cup in his hand. He rinsed and spit, but resisted the attempt to help him stand up.

"Nope, not gonna move for a minute or two."

"God, Dick, I'm so sorry," Tim said, sounding distraught.

"Not your fault, Timmy," Dick said. He heard at least two people breathing, he guessed Damian and Tim, and Steph was probably near. Dick resisted the urge to bury his face in his arms against the toilet seat. Instead, he finished the water slowly to buy some time. Then he sat up straight, summoned a smile from somewhere and faced his audience. He could always manage one more performance.

"I feel like 'I Fought the Law and the Law Won.'"

Tim groaned. "That was bad, Dick. Seriously bad."

"You're really making me wonder, 'Should I Stay or Should I Go?'"

"Tt. You better not saying you are about to 'Rock the Casbah.' That song is offensive," Damian griped.

Dick felt a bit shaky, but wanted to get off the bathroom floor. The nauseas was receding as quickly as it had arrived. As soon as he started to stand up, he felt two sets of hands stabilizing him. He attempted to shrug them off, but he still had a slight sensation of spinning so didn't push it.

"We're taking you to Alfred," Tim stated.

"No, totally not necessary."

"I agree with Drake," Damian said and Dick knew that winning this argument would take more energy than he wanted to spend.

"Fine," he sighed and allowed himself to be more or less frog marched to the kitchen, where Alfred was preparing dinner. Damian and Tim deposited Dick in a chair while Steph gave Alfred an overly detailed summary.

"What exactly happened, Master Richard?" the butler asked. Dick knew that Alfred was serious since Alfred called him Master Richard instead of Master Dick.

Dick realized that this was another fight he didn't have the energy to take on, so he admitted, "Vertigo. Bad enough that I threw up. I think it was the music."

"One can hardly call that music, Master Richard. I'm afraid I'm going to have to call Dr. Thompkins," Alfred said, his tone genuinely considerate. Dick gave in to his desire to bury his face in his arms. At least he couldn't see the half concerned, half disappointed look that he knew Alfred had on his face.

Alfred caught Leslie just as she was finishing up for the day, and put her on speaker. He had Dick tell her what happened, then Alfred told her that if she was able to come straight out to the Manor, she could eat dinner with the family.

"It smells like beef bourguignon," Dick said, and Leslie laughed.

"In that case, I'll be there in 30 minutes."

"It can't be that serious if she's laughing," Dick said after Alfred finished the call.

Once again, Dick didn't need to see to know the frown he was receiving from Alfred.

"Now, everyone out of my kitchen," Alfred said. "I have a few things to take care of before Dr. Thompkins gets here."

Sitting down had helped, and Dick was feeling almost normal - his new normal - so he tried harder this time to shake off Damian and Tim's hands.

"You almost redecorated my carpet, Dick," Tim said firmly but not unkindly. "You fell a few days ago. You. So I'm going to insist on helping you until you get the all-clear from Leslie."

His brothers led him to the couch while Steph kept up a running commentary. "Oh, I wonder if B will be home soon. Yay, I love Daddy Bats!"

"Not helpful, Fatgirl," Damian snarled.

"Lie down," Tim said.

"No, honestly, it's better if I just stay sitting," Dick said. Sometimes the change from sitting to lying or the reverse made his head spin.

"I texted Cass and she'll bring Babs," Steph chirped.

"Oh my God," Dick moaned.

"Cass was going to meet me here anyway to start patrol," Steph said.

He endured the next half an hour of Damian chastising Dick for not saying something sooner. Dick's repeated protests of "Damian, I really felt fine until I went into Tim's room," were either completely ignored or made Damian grumble at Tim that everything was Tim's fault. Tim defended himself once and then was oddly quiet, Dick noted.

Steph tried to get him to eat crackers and drink ginger ale, until Dick finally snapped that he wasn't pregnant, damn it. He immediately regretted it.

"Sorry," he said. "That was uncalled for, and I apologize." Steph gave him a hug and he knew that he was forgiven. She cuddled in next to him on the sofa.

"Okay, you two brats, leave Dick alone now; he's a grown man," she said and Dick gave her a squeeze back.

Bruce arrived, announced his presence at the door of the living room with a small grunt of greeting. Trying to make the best of the situation, Dick flashed him a cheeky grin and waved. "Hey, B, want to join four of your current or former Robins while we are waiting for the doctor? It's like a party."

"I'm going to get changed," Bruce said flatly.

Stephanie laughed as soon as he was gone. "You should have seen his face, Dick. I'm going to text Jason and then it really will be a Robin party."

"Worst party ever," Damian snorted and Dick kind of agreed. He normally liked company and he loved his family but if they thought they were all going to watch while Leslie examined him, they had another think coming.

"Jason is with the Outlaws tonight," Dick pointed out.

"It's not a party because of Dick. Everyone just wants an excuse to come for dinner, since Alfred is making beef bourguignon tonight and homemade bread," Tim said.

"And I may have said that Alfred has tarte tatin and icecream planned for dessert," Steph added and Dick felt immense relief that they weren't coming over just for him. It was something he'd never thought he'd say, but he was getting a little tired of all of the attention and scrutiny. No one had said anything, really, but he felt the speculation, the examinations, the wondering at his progress and what it all means. It weighed heavier on him every day.

Babs and Cass arrived before Leslie, and the living room really did feel a little like a party. Alfred produced veggies and hummus, someone turned on the television at a low volume, and Bruce even joined them.

When Leslie arrived, she suggested that only Alfred and Bruce accompany Dick down to the cave, which elicited a protest from at least Tim and Damian.

"Don't pout, Little D. If I bring one baby-bat, I'll have to bring all of you. I'm sure Dr. Thompkins doesn't need an audience," Dick said to defuse the situation.

Bruce touched Dick's hand - Dick smelt his cologne - and Dick knew that if he didn't allow Bruce to lead him down to the cave, Bruce would carry him instead. He really needed to figure out how to get some independence back. Dick followed Bruce into the study, through the hidden door, and down the steps. The air chilling as they descended, the feel of the hewn stone beneath his feet, the echoes of their footsteps, all felt as familiar to Dick as his room in the Manor. More familiar, in some ways. Even when Richard Grayson hadn't felt welcome upstairs, Nightwing came to the Cave.

"This is my first time down here," Dick said. "Since . . ."

Nobody replied, which was just as well, really. What could be said? No one could reassure him that he'd ever come down again as anything other than a patient or awkward guest. Richard Grayson was living back at the Manor, but Nightwing might never again be in the cave. Maybe Damian might, someday, be ready to move on from Robin and then want . . . but Dick shied away from completing that thought. Not ready to go there yet.

Though Dick had never consciously counted the steps before, and wasn't counting them now, he could still tell they were at the bottom before Bruce's quiet warning. The path to the med bay felt equally well-known.

"Dick, could you sit on the exam table?" Leslie asked, and Dick heard her tap the table where she wanted him. Bruce helped him hop up, unnecessarily in Dick's opinion. "Now swing your legs up so they're flat in front of you on the table." He heard Alfred walk around the table to stand on Dick's right side.

"Okay, honey, I'm going to move your head around, then have you lie down quickly while I support your head and neck. Just let me guide the movement. You might feel some vertigo, so tell us if that happens. Ready?"

"Sure," Dick said, and felt Leslie's warm hands, comforting, on his chin and back of his head. She moved his head about 45 degrees to his left, leaned him back swiftly so that his head was off the table, slightly below horizontal. He felt a rush of disequilibrium but no true vertigo, which he told Leslie.

"Keep your eyes open," Leslie said. He hadn't even been aware that he was closing them. "Do you see his eyes, Bruce? Not moving at all."

"What does that mean?" Bruce asked.

"It means we need to try the other side." Leslie guided Dick back up to sitting, and he felt the world waver and roll for a second.

"Vertigo?" Leslie asked.

"Just for a second but I'm fine now."

"I'm going to do it again, but on the other side." This time the doctor turned his head 45 degrees to the right and repeated the maneuver, and instantly Dick felt like he was extremely drunk while on a ship in a storm.

"How are you feeling?"

"Sick."

"Now you can see that his eyes are moving back and forth. It's called nystagmus," Leslie said.

Bruce must be leaning over, because Dick heard his agree from right above Dick's head.

"Dick, this means you have something called benign paroxysmal positional vertigo, or BPPV. This is good news, because I can treat it right now."

"How?"

"We do pretty much the same thing, but hold each position longer, and do it three times. It will probably make the vertigo worse before it gets better."

"Like the world's worst fun fair," Dick joked.

Leslie took him through a modified version of the maneuvers, which was exactly as fun as it sounded. When she finished the third repetition, she helped him sit up and said to Alfred and Bruce, "Do you see his eyes are still now? No more shaking. That's it. Any vertigo at all this last time?"

"None."

"We're done then."

"That's it? Really?" Dick asked.

"More or less. About 20% of patients need to have the treatment repeated, but Alfred can easily do it. You'll need to not bend your head down or lower your chin for the rest of the day, and then sleep propped up on pillows tonight. In twenty-four hours or less, if you're part of the 80%, you should feel fine. If not, Alfred can do it whenever you need."

Dick felt a surge of incredulous relief and desperately wished that he could search Leslie's face for signs that she was teasing him. But Leslie wouldn't do that, would never joke about something like this. He pulled Leslie into a hug - easy to do since she still had a hand on his shoulder.

Bruce of course had to ruin the moment. "We will talk later about why you didn't mention this earlier," he rumbled.

"Later," Alfred agreed. "Now let's go upstairs. Dinner should be just about ready."

Dinner was amazingly delicious. Dessert tasted even better, since Alfred had whipped up a homemade caramel sauce. After dessert, his family sat around the dining table and drank coffee. The conversation flowed easily, as did the banter and friendly insults. Dick hadn't had a single episode of vertigo since Leslie's treatment, and the relief that brought eased tension in his neck and shoulders that he hadn't even realized he'd been carrying. The only one they were missing was Jason. Dick felt almost content, and he smiled and joined in easily with the joking.

He went back down to the Cave to see them off afterwards, sitting in the big chair in front of the main computer screen. He pulled his knees up to his chest and listened to the teasing and bragging as everyone got changed and warmed up. Bruce went over strategy, gave everyone assignments, checked up on current cases, and even though his Batman voice was cool and commanding, Dick knew the warm feeling left behind after each little conversation. The desire to go out and make Bruce proud. The determination to make a difference. To protect.

Babs sat next to Dick for a while and quizzed him about recent Bludhaven criminal activity. Damian made a point of demanding a recounting of the last time Dick had dealt with the Black Mask. Tim asked him to double check his grappling hook cord - a task that worked better with fingers than eyes. Steph asked for advice on an acrobatic move she'd been working on. Cass came up and leaned on him silently for a few minutes. Bruce touched his shoulder and told him not to stay up.

Dick appreciated the steps that they all took to make him feel included, but a coil of helpless anger flickered in his stomach. Anger at his own feelings of inadequacy, of being useless. Anger that maybe this was his life now.

Then, one by one or in pairs, his family went to fight against the darkness. Everyone he loved most in the world left to carry on their mission without him. He tried to ignore his fury and feelings of uselessness. There was no one for Dick to shout at, nothing to punch. Clayface was back in custody, and couldn't really be considered rational and sane anyway. Dick knew it truly wasn't anyone's fault, not even his own, so his anger and his shame had no target.

Dick heard Alfred approach. It sounded like he deliberately shuffled his feet. "Right then, Master Dick. I've neglected the dinner dishes for long enough. Let's get you settled in bed then I'll take care of things."

"I'm not even close to be ready to go to bed. I've had two naps today. I'd like to stay down here a bit longer."

Alfred hesitated. "I'm not sure that's a good idea, Master Dick."

Dick plastered on a smile and adopted a hopeful tone. "Or I could help you with the dishes."

"That will be quite unnecessary, I dare say," Alfred said dryly, then sighed. "What shall you do if you stay down here?"

Dick shrugged. Fair question, really. "I have my phone with me. I'll put a podcast on or something. I just want to . . . I like it here. I missed it."

Alfred squeezed Dick's shoulder. "Very well, I'll come back down for you after I finish upstairs. Please do not attempt the stairs on your own. If you can't wait for me, please use the lift."

"Sure," Dick agreed easily, and listened to Alfred's footsteps recede.

Once Dick was sure Alfred was gone, he stood up. He knew exactly where the training area was; he'd been wandering around the Batcave since he was nine. Still, he wished he'd brought his cane with him. The cane that he could barely bring himself to use, for reasons he didn't really want to examine too closely. Dick had to admit, though, that it would help him identify stairs. Dropoffs and sudden holes were something that even all of Bruce's training in fighting while blindfolded didn't have good solutions for.

He was pleased at how the rest of his senses helped to fill in the space, from the sounds of the bats, the hum of servers and machines, the echoes of his own footsteps, even smell. No matter how clean Alfred and Damian kept Bat-Cow, there was a slight barnyard smell coming from her area, and the familiar tang of sweat and gym mats from the training room.

Dick made it to the gym area without any problems and allowed himself a small smile when his feet felt the familiar squish of the mats under him. From there, it was easy to find the heavy punching bag. The bag he desperately needed to beat the hell out of. He listened for a moment and realized how well he could visualize the space. He walked to the back wall to grab some light sparring gloves, thanking Bruce and Alfred's neat-nik tendencies which made finding his preferred size and type easy.

He started a light warm up, and within minutes was sure that the vertigo was gone for now. It might come back, but for now he felt comfortable moving more freely than he had in nearly three weeks. And it felt damn good. When he was ready, he moved back to the bag and started a typical punching bag workout, a mix of low kicks, high kicks, knee strikes, punches and hooks.

At first he couldn't help but categorize every fault, from the way that the left side of his body wasn't responding quite the way he wanted to the fact that days of inactivity had their impact on his strength and stamina. These deficiencies just fed the anger that had been growing since everyone left for patrol. No, let's be honest, he thought. The anger had been growing since he first admitted to Damian that he couldn't see.

Slowly, his inner critic fell silent. Everything considered, he wasn't doing half bad. Not nearly up to his previous standard, of course, but acceptable for the circumstances. Maybe there was even a hint of his usual grace.

Keep going. Each punch or kick he landed on the bag felt so gratifying, a pleasurable relief. He felt himself tiring far too soon. Don't stop. The shambling grace he'd managed to achieve faltered, limbs heavy, everything aching, yet he pushed. Keep going. His chest heaved and he couldn't catch his breath, and he paused to wipe the stinging wetness away from his eyes. Just sweat, he told himself, even as he knew it was a lie. Come on. Jab. Knee. High kick.

Sometimes physical effort changed into something akin to meditation. Cleansing, in it's own way - like purifying fire. The body and the mind melded together into a place beyond consciousness, when movement was thought, when emotions could bleed out and be released.

"Master Richard!"

Alfred's shout jerked Dick out of that head space. How long had Alfred been calling his name? He had no idea. He grabbed the bag to still it and rested his forehead against the cool vinyl surface.

Alfred walked up to him, chastising and lscolding. Dick let his words flow over and around him, acknowledged the butler's worry with a genuine apology, but couldn't figure out how to explain.

Alfred realized that he wasn't going to get through to Dick, at least tonight, and gave a sigh of pure exasperation. He had been working with Bruce long enough to know when to save his lectures.

"Right, come now, Master Richard. Let's get you in bed."

Dick let Alfred lead him back up to his room without a word and fuss over the pillow arrangement. He passively allowed Alfred to walk him through getting ready for bed, even though he'd been doing all of the tasks alone before he'd left the hospital. He didn't even protest when the butler tucked him up and touched his hair before bidding goodnight, as if Dick was a young child again.

Dick didn't fear death. He hadn't, since that night at the circus so long ago. Not his own death, anyway. He'd made Bruce's war his war long before he'd been old enough to join a real army. And if the consequences, if dying, hadn't seemed real to him then, the night of dripping candle wax and oaths, they certainly were by the time he was twenty, and had lost comrades of his own. Yet still, he'd laughed at death, had spat in death's face, broken bread with death, then made friends with death. Death, old chum. Despite the tears he shed as his losses continued, his courage had never truly wavered.

"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori." It is fitting and honorable to die for one's country, but patria was from patrius - of or pertaining to the father. Homeland. Family.

Dick never expected to lose on the battlefield and yet not die. Maybe he had been hopelessly naive, especially after Barbara, but permanent disability wasn't something he'd dwelled on. All or nothing. Live or die. And honestly, Dick hadn't expected to reach forty.

Dick had been a soldier since he was nine, and thought that he'd die a soldier. That hadn't happened, and he was no longer fit for war. All that was left was impotent rage.

Dick couldn't sleep. He told himself that it was because he'd had two naps that day, and that definitely didn't help. He'd also hadn't been sleeping well at night in general since the fight with Clayface. But that night he felt like he should be happy, or at least hopeful, that the vertigo was most likely cured and if it wasn't, they had at least an easy treatment. He'd had a workout which, while not perfect, had a cathartic quality to it and proved that he hadn't lost it all. By all rational, logical measures, it had been a good evening, but desperation and anger edged every thought.

Dick felt like all of the other issues that he'd been ignoring loomed larger than ever. With the vertigo taken care of, everything else was now unavoidable. And there was an awful lot of everything else to deal with.

Dick knew the odds. He knew that in a very real way, he'd already beaten most of them. He could have been so much worse, with his kind of injury. Probably should be, really. You should be grateful, he thought, but the words were poison. Maybe he should be grateful, but gratitude was bitter as bile when so much else had been taken away. It could have been worse. That recrimination choked him.

He wasn't going to get to sleep anytime soon, so he propped himself a bit higher on the huge mass of pillows Alfred had supplied. He grabbed his phone, felt around for his earbuds, and tried to get comfortable. Everything ached from earlier, and he knew he'd be even more stiff and sore tomorrow.

He gave his phone a verbal command to shuffle and play all, thinking that he didn't already have a playlist to fit his current mood. Blind former vigilante? Brain damaged superhero angst? He was pretty sure that no one else was creating lists like that either.

Dick had no idea how many hours passed, as he listened to music. He skipped songs that were too happy, and songs that were too sad, but some songs resonated. Some of the songs caught him right in the chest, the words and music easing an ache just enough to help him relax. He must have eventually dozed off, because when he felt a large, calloused hand gently touch his cheek, he yelped and jerked away before his mind was able to realize that it was Bruce.

"It's okay, it's just me," Bruce murmured. "Shhhh."

Dick let himself collapse against the pillows. "Hey."

"You shouldn't be awake," Bruce said, but he didn't sound angry, just stating a fact.

Dick shrugged. "I slept all day."

"Hmmmm." Bruce touched his cheek again, then pushed his hair back and out of his face. Dick leaned in to the contact. Bruce kept his hand there, rubbing Dick's temple softly with his thumb.

"I can't sleep at night, ever, really," Dick found himself admitting, though he hadn't planned on saying anything. He must be more tired than he thought.

Bruce was silent for a moment, just a warm presence next to Dick. "What can I do?" Bruce finally asked, and he sounded so sincere, but also broken. Like he'd barely been able to choke the words out.

"Nothing. No one can do anything," Dick answered, more resigned than bitter. Or maybe he was just exhausted. He pushed himself fully upright.

"I'll figure something out," Bruce said, voice rough. "I promise, I'll fix this."

Dick wanted desperately to believe him, but he didn't know if he could handle any more hope right now. "Bruce, don't say that. You can't promise anything. I just need to move on from here."

"Not alone, you don't." Bruce pulled Dick in for a hug, and Dick let himself crumple against a rock-solid shoulder. Bruce's arms came up, one hand in Dick's hair - too long, he thought wildly - and the other warm across his back.

"I can't keep hoping . . ." Dick managed, trying to explain. "It hurts too much."

"Whatever you need."

"I don't know how, but I've got to figure out a way to keep moving." Dick stopped talking for a minute, thinking how to express what he meant. "I'm not giving up. But maybe I need to accept that some things won't change."

"I'm here now. I'm sorry if I wasn't earlier, but we can figure it out together."

And Dick was crying again. This time he could admit it - desperate, heaving cries.

"That's right, just let it out," Bruce said. "I'm here."

Dick hated to cry. Hated the way it made his eyes burn, his mouth and chin ache from frowning, the loss of control. But he couldn't stop. On some level it felt good, as necessary and cathartic as his punching bag routine had been earlier. Bruce kept whispering calming words, and Dick cried until he fell asleep.


	13. The Dying of the Light

_Warnings: a couple of swear words_

 _xxxxxxxx_

After he was sure that Dick was really asleep, Bruce eased his son gently back onto the giant pile of pillows and extracted himself from the room. He was grateful that he'd decided to check in on Dick before heading to bed after patrol. Bruce wasn't naive enough to think that now, everything was suddenly fine, but he was hopeful that they'd taken a step in the right direction.

He knew that Dick had initially been hopeful, almost certain, that he would be one of the patients who regained eyesight. Bruce wasn't quite sure why Dick now seemed so certain that he wouldn't, or maybe Dick was just getting tired of the uncertain cruelty of hope. Bruce had spent as much time as possible the last couple of weeks doing his own research and making enquiries. As Batman, he'd gone up to the Watchtower and consulted with Dr. Mid-Nite, Cyborg and Mr. Terrific. He'd sent Dick's records and scans to S.T.A.R. Labs and Cyborg's father, Silas Stone. As Bruce Wayne, he'd thrown money at research institutions and universities working on cortical implants and visual prosthetics. No one had a cure, or even close to one, but there were some intriguing ideas.

Bruce left the Manor before Dick even woke up, though Alfred assured Bruce that he wouldn't let Dick miss his morning's appointments. As he drove into downtown Gotham, Bruce allowed himself to think about possible solutions to the problem of oxidative, enzymatic and hydrolytic degradation any device implanted in the human body suffers before it needed to be exchanged. But as he parked his car, Bruce forced himself to step into his Wayne Enterprises CEO persona and put thoughts of Dick and possible solutions aside, at least for the next few hours.

The exception was when he had a meeting with Tim. They efficiently covered the WE research and development proposals Tim wanted to discuss.

"I liked all of them except for the second one. That needs a bit more work," Bruce said, then moved to the topic he really wanted to discuss. "The head of web development assured me that the search is going well for four more developers who specialize in accessible web design. It's a top priority for her right now."

"That's great. I thought our website was pretty well-designed for visual impairment, but now I've realized there's a lot we can improve on."

Bruce nodded his agreement. "How's the new department coming?"

"It's taking a bit more time to create a team from scratch, but we're making good progress in forming a department to improve accessibility for everyone in new and existing tech products."

"Keep me informed. Let me know if you encounter any roadblocks."

"I don't think I'll have any problems. Not only is it just the right thing to do, but I've put together a pretty solid business case for the benefits of inclusive design." A glint in Tim's eyes and a small, wolfish smile indicated that he actually hoped someone would dare to disagree.

Bruce allowed one corner of his mouth to curve up in a mirroring smile. "Good."

Tim hesitated for a moment, then asked, "How do you think he's doing?"

"If you're asking me if he'll have any long term negative effects from your little musical test, then the answer is, he'll be fine."

Tim's facial expression was too well-controlled to look surprised, and for a second Bruce thought that Tim would try to deny it. But then a hint of guilt flickered in his eyes and Tim took a deep breath. "I didn't think it would be quite so dramatic. I just wanted to see if my theory was right."

"Next time, talk to me or Alfred instead of turning your brother into a lab rat."

"I will," Tim agreed, though Bruce knew that if Tim really thought that he knew best, he would just do it.

Bruce sighed. "I mean it, Tim. Talk to me. It worked out this time but it could have been much worse."

"I will," Tim said again and Bruce felt slightly more inclined to believe him this time.

"You need to talk to Dick."

Tim winced, though Bruce doubted that anyone outside of the family would notice. "Okay."

"Will you come to the Manor tonight?"

Tim shook his head. "I wasn't planning on tonight, but I'll be around this weekend."

"Take care, Tim," Bruce said and they both knew Bruce was talking about patrol.

"Always," Tim said and they both knew Tim was lying.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Bruce spent the next several days observing Dick as much as he could. Objectively, Dick seemed to be doing much better. He walked more independently around the Manor, though that improvement was probably as much due to the absence of vertigo as anything else. He was cleared for light exercise - no contact sports, no gymnastics, no going upside down, stop if any symptoms came back - and it had an immediate positive effect on Dick's mood.

Bruce knew about Dick's excursion in the cave, but decided not to say anything directly to Dick about it. Bruce did pointedly remind Dick that all areas of the cave were video monitored, and that if Dick wanted to train, Bruce expected someone to be with him.

After the first week at home, Dick started having lessons and therapy sessions both morning and afternoon. The new schedule exhausted him, but he also progressed faster.

Bruce observed sessions when he could, including a couple of sessions with Dick's orientation and mobility instructor. Anne Gray had come very highly recommended, and was blind from birth. Bruce thought that her lessons with Dick were fascinating to watch. Anne insisted on a long, non-folding white cane with a metal tip. She taught Dick to use tactile feedback from the tip as well as echoes from the tapping sound.

Right now Dick was working his way around the ballroom, which had various pieces of furniture and other trip hazards scattered around for him to avoid. Dick seemed to having fun, judging by his laughter and playful banter, and made the challenge look easy.

After Bruce had been observing for about a quarter of an hour, Anne walked over to Bruce and sat next to him. She was a bit older than Bruce, average height with a wiry, strong build. Her salt-and-pepper hair was cut in a short, practical hairstyle and her smile was warm and engaging.

"Dick is picking this up really quickly. It's almost like he's had similar training before," she said.

"Hmmm."

"No, I mean it. Dick has exceptional spatial awareness and very sensitive hearing. He must have practice somehow."

"He was raised in a circus." It was really the perfect excuse for almost anything.

Anne's eyebrows shot up. "I guess that might explain it," she mused, not convinced but not willing to press the matter any further. "We're ready to start working on getting around in a city. The problem is you're not very accessible here by bus."

"Alfred can drive you wherever you need to go," Bruce said instantly.

"That's great, but he'll need to feel confident getting around by public transport before he can be truly independent."

Bruce frowned. If he had to admit it, he'd very deliberately not thought about the possibility of Dick moving back out. Even if it happened, he reassured himself, it would be months before Dick would be ready. "Use Alfred for now, or hire a car if Alfred isn't available," he said firmly.

"We can do that, but start thinking about how Dick is going to get around long term."

"Agreed," Bruce said, though privately he didn't see how Alfred or the occasional taxi wasn't a valid long term choice. "Let me know if you need anything else."

"Thanks, Mr. Wayne."

"Please, call me Bruce," he said in his most charming and self-deprecating Brucie tone, and bid goodbye to Anne and Dick. He needed to go review his research notes. Maybe all this long-terming planning would be moot anyway.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A few days after the madness that was Halloween in Gotham was over, Bruce came home early from the office. He was going to take Dick to the Watchtower to meet with Cyborg, Mr. Terrific and Dr. Mid-Nite. Bruce met Dick in his study, and the two of them walked down to the Cave and to the locker room. Bruce handed Dick a specially modified mask that he'd made for the occasion.

Bruce got changed into his suit, everything but the cowl. When he turned back to Dick, his son was still sitting on a bench in his civilian clothes, holding the new mask in his hands.

"Do you . . . want help with changing?" Bruce asked. The Nightwing uniform was hanging up within easy reach, and Bruce had made sure to leave Dick directly in front of his locker.

Dick shook his head. "I'm thinking of going in this." He gestured at his current clothes.

"Whatever you would be most comfortable in," Bruce replied, frowning.

"I'll skip the suit then," Dick said as he applied the mask. "As long as you don't have a problem being seen with me."

"Unless you are wearing that polka-dot shirt, I would never have a problem being seen with you," Bruce said in a completely serious voice, knowing that Dick would pick up the joke.

The corner of Dick's mouth quirked up in a small but genuine smile. "I'll have you know, Kori bought me that shirt from an up-and-coming designer." Then he frowned, serious again. "I meant, being seen with me now that I'm not Nightwing."

Bruce sighed and sat next to Dick on the bench. "Is that why you don't want to get changed?"

"Well, yeah," Dick said with a shrug that was supposed to look casual.

"You're still Nightwing. You deserve to wear the suit if you want to."

Dick snorted in bitter disbelief. "Is that why Jason has been going out as Nightwing for the last month?"

"I wasn't aware that you knew about that," Bruce said levelly.

"I'm not stupid, Bruce. All of a sudden Jason has a lot more missions with the Outlaws, but when I talk to Kori or Roy they don't mention being unusually busy. I've heard things on the news about the Red Hood, but there's also been mentions of Nightwing. You might have been trying to keep Nightwing on the down low, but he's still being spotted in Bludhaven. Who else could it be besides Jason?"

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "I didn't want you to find out like this."

"Then you should have talked to me. It's been going on for weeks," Dick scoffed.

Bruce sat for a moment, easily picturing Alfred glaring at him. "I apologize. I made the decision very early on, before you were really aware, but I should have told you as soon as I could."

"I know why you did it, but . . . damn it, Bruce. You need to stop making these decisions for me." Dick sounded angry, but exhausted too.

"I know. It . . . it seemed like the right thing to do at the time."

"That's exactly the problem. It's always the right decision, or the most logical, or the most tactically sound. You make these brilliant decisions, but then you don't tell anyone."

"I supposed that's a fair accusation. It's . . . habit."

"Bruce, you haven't worked alone for fifteen years. It's time to develop new habits."

"Hmmm."

"Try not to shut down. Secrets, lies, trying to control my life - that's what messed up our relationship before. Why I moved out. Now I can't, at least not yet, so please don't make me want to."

Bruce grabbed Dick's shoulder and squeezed, hoping that Dick would read everything in that contact that Bruce couldn't bring himself to say out loud. Please forgive me. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm proud of you. I love you. Thinking how close he had come to losing another child, again. How he could still lose Dick from his life if he drove him away. Dick had lost enough of his independence and was having to claw every piece back one by one. Bruce vowed to himself that he wouldn't take away any more.

"I'll try harder," Bruce managed to say after several seconds of fraught silence. "I'm so proud of you."

Dick leaned in to Bruce's arm for just a second. "Thanks. That means a lot."

"Now, are you ready for our little show?"

Dick grinned and stood up. "Almost ready. I think I need to look the part a bit more," he said and pulled off his sweatshirt. "Will we be terribly late if I get changed?"

"Not at all." So very, very proud.

Dick finished changing, inserted his comm unit into his ear, then pushed a button on his mask. "Ready."

Bruce pulled his cowl over his head and settled it comfortably against his nose and cheeks, then touched his comm. "Oracle, we are ready. Are you receiving?"

"Receiving," Batman heard Oracle reply, and a nod from Nightwing showed that he'd heard too. "I'll speak directly to Nightwing from now on, unless I need something specific from Batman."

"Right. Let's go," Batman said, and led the way to the Zeta tube. Nightwing followed, several steps behind so that he wouldn't step on Batman's cape. Batman knew that he was also listening carefully for the faint but distinctive sound of kevlar and leather dragging across stone. Oracle did the rest, watching her video feed from Nightwing's mask and then giving him directions through his comm. Those with super hearing would notice, but everyone else would hopefully have no idea.

While the original seven members knew Batman's identity, and therefore Nightwing's, the JLA had expanded many times since the founders. A few others knew who Batman was, as did the original Titans, but Batman didn't want to risk anyone else finding out. Oracle had agreed to help with his plan, and Nightwing had been more than happy to play along. Batman suspected that Nightwing hadn't wanted to reveal any possible weakness to his peers who didn't already know.

Batman programmed the zeta tube and stepped through, Nightwing following after. He waited for Nightwing to signal that he was ready, and at Nightwing's thumbs up, Batman started walking towards the med bay. On the smooth floors of the Watchtower, his cape made even less noise, so Batman made sure that each of his footsteps sounded as he walked. Batman hoped no one would intercept them before they reached the med bay, and that if they did get stopped, it wouldn't be by . . .

"Batman! Who's with you? Nightwing! Wasn't expecting to see you here!" Oliver Queen said.

"Green Arrow," Batman growled. Both Batman and Nightwing had stopped as soon as they heard Oliver's voice. Batman half turned, so that he could see both Oliver and Dick.

"Hi, G. A.," Dick said, smiling. Dick turned to face Ollie directly, angling his head just right so that, given that his eyes were hidden by the white-out lenses, it seemed as if Dick was looking straight at Oliver's face.

"What are you doing here, kid? I heard you were going to be out of commission for a while."

"I am. For a while longer."

"Well, you look great."

"Thanks. Good to see you again."

"Now, we have an appointment at the med bay," Batman commanded.

"Talk to you later," Dick said cheerfully.

Bruce started walking, and relaxed slightly when he heard Nightwing following along. As they continued down the corridor, Bruce heard Ollie heard mutter to himself, "I thought Roy told me he went blind? Fuckin' bats. Don't tell me they have literal echolocation now too."

After they'd walked far enough that Batman was positive that Oliver wouldn't be able to hear him, he said, "Oliver Queen is an idiot."

Dick chuckled. "Not going to argue that point today."

They made it to the med bay without any more interruptions. Batman led Nightwing to one of the examination and treatment rooms where Cyborg, Dr. Mid-Nite and Mr. Terrific were already waiting for them.

"Hey, man, good to see you," Cyborg said warmly, pulling Dick into a hug. "You remember Dr. Mid-Nite and Mr. Terrific."

Each man greeted Dick and shook his hand.

"Right," Dr. Mid-Nite said. "Let's get down to business."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

After returning to the Bat Cave, Dick and Bruce went back to the den, where Alfred and Damian were waiting for them.

"What happened?" Damian demanded.

"Nothing," Dick said, collapsing onto the couch. "They wanted their own scans, since they have access to better tech, and of course they needed to do their own poking and prodding."

"Dick is slightly discouraged, since the tests showed that his vision has not improved," Bruce explained.

Dick brought his feet up onto the seat and hugged his knees. "Slightly discouraged," he repeated sarcastically.

"Didn't Cyborg and the others have a good plan?" Damian said, hands on hips, looking ready to fight Bruce right then and there if the answer was no.

"They're working on it, Damian," Bruce said at the same time that Dick said, "Not even close."

Damian looked back and forth between his brother and father.

"Right then, sirs. I trust that the doctors will be able to come up with something. Shall I make us all some tea?"

"Bruce, I told you the other week that I can't keep doing this," Dick said angrily, ignoring Alfred. "Stop promising a cure that no one can deliver."

"I'm not trying to promise anything. Cyborg is your friend. Dr. Mid-Nite and Mr. Terrific respect you very much. They think they might be able to help, that's all."

"Well, I'm done. You have my scans and test results. I don't want to be involved any more." Dick stood up.

"You just need to give it time, Master Richard."

"Alfie, I know you mean well, but it's been nearly a month. If my sight was going to heal on it's own, it would have started to improve my now," Dick said heatedly.

"You don't know that for sure," Damian interjected.

Dick reached out towards Damian, who hesitated for a moment before stepping close enough to allow Dick to touch him. "Thanks, Dami, but I do know," Dick said quietly, knowing this was not what Damian wanted to hear. "Whatever improvement I get is going to occur in the first six months. I've had no change at all, not even a tiny bit."

Damian looked shattered before he hid his face against Dick's chest. Dick's hand came up to stroke his hair.

Bruce marvelled at how quickly Dick could go from arguing with Bruce and even Alfred, to being so gentle with Damian.

"Dick, I don't want to keep getting your hopes up and then disappointing you. That is not my intention at all. However, I don't think we've exhausted all of our options yet."

"Fine. Do what you want to do, but I'm done." Dick threw his hands up in the air with exasperation.

"Don't just walk away from this. There are lots of possibilities to explore. Cyborg was just telling me about a new polyimide that will reduce the risk of -"

Dick interrupted him. "I mean it. Research all you want, but leave me out of it."

"I want to help. You can't just stop trying," Bruce said.

"Grayson, it isn't like you to just give up," Damian pleaded.

Dick gripped Damian's shoulders. "I am trying," he hissed. "I am trying to put my life back together and work on improving the things that can actually get better. I'm in therapy for seven hours every day. I can't try any harder and thought you understood that."

"Of course he does, Master Richard," Alfred said. "We all know how much you've been working."

Bruce tried to discern exactly how they had ended up in a shouting match. By the disapproving scowl Alfred was shooting him, it was probably Bruce's fault. "I know that your sight wasn't the only thing affected," he said, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible, "but you're doing so well in therapy and getting better. If my colleagues can help with the sight, why won't you let them?"

"I'm not stopping anybody from doing anything. I just want don't want to be a lab rat. Come back to me when you have something real."

Bruce winced. Hadn't he accused Tim of using Dick as a lab rat not that long ago? Bruce closed the distance between himself and Dick.

Damian glared up at Bruce. "I think I understand where Grayson is coming from. You and the machine man continue with your research, and Grayson will keep working on rehabilitation, and you will not tease him with wild speculations."

Bruce bridled a bit at their work being compared to wild speculation, but he had to admit that Damian made sense. "I can agree to that."

Dick sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "I can too."

Bruce pulled both of his sons into a hug. "I'm not . . . my intention today wasn't to upset you."

Damian squirmed away from the embrace with a "tt," but he looked pleased.

"I know," Dick mumbled. "If that last test hadn't been so awful, I wouldn't have minded at all. But it wasn't the results I wanted to hear, and I don't know how much more disappointment I can deal with right now."

"We have all of the results and images so far; we can keep working without you for quite some time."

Alfred cleared his throat. "Now I think we definitely require tea."

Dick pulled away slowly. "That sounds amazing, Alfred," he said, voice shaking slightly. He sat back down and covered his face with his hands. "God, I'm sorry. How can any of you stand me these days?"

"Don't apologize to us, Dick," Bruce said and he sounded angrier than he meant to. He took a calming breath, ran through the Fibonacci sequence from 610 to 317,811, and spoke only when he could control his voice perfectly. "I am proud of you, and you don't need to apologize to any of us."

"Quite right, my dear boy," Alfred said briskly.

"We are all very accustomed to your melodrama, Grayson," Damian said, sitting next to Dick. "I'm sure Father will do his best to stop provoking you in such an inconsiderate manner in the future. He can be quite childish sometimes."

That startled a weak laugh out of Dick. "Damian, never change. Give me a cuddle."

"I absolutely will not."

"Please. It will help me feel so much better."

"Only until Alfred returns with the tea, and only because I need to atone for Father's mistakes." Damian slid over until he was shoulder to shoulder with Dick.

Dick put his arm around the teen. "I'll take it."

Bruce looked at his oldest and youngest children and felt that somewhere, somehow, he'd done some things right in his life.

Note :

Thank you so much to everyone who has commented, favorited or followed this story. This chapter was quite hard for me to write, so please let me know what worked or didn't work for you. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Connect with me on a href= blog/caramelmachetetumblr/a


	14. They Know Me Well Who Surround Me Here

One month and a day after the encounter with Clayface, Tim showed up at the Manor for more family bonding time. One upside of that day was the family was actually getting together without either causing or suffering from active bleeding. Not that Tim would consider the trade worth it per se, but he never thought he'd be spending so much time with both his previously-murderous predecessor and successor not only without wanting to kill them, worrying about defending his own life, but actually enjoying it.

"Operation Stop Dickface From Being A Self-Sacrificing Idiot" had suffered a couple of - hiccups - but overall seemed to be helping. Though Tim would never admit to Jason ever that Tim had started to refer to the plan by Jason's name for it. The golf cart game was played as often as they had enough participants at the manor. No one was surprised when Barbara turned out to be the best at giving directions, no matter who was driving. Dick still had company during waking hours, and someone - usually Bruce or Damian - checked in on him before going to bed after patrol. And if they often ended up spending the rest of the night in Dick's room, no one said anything. At least those nights Dick seemed to get some real sleep.

Two weeks of careful observation since Leslie fixed Dick's vertigo reassured Tim that Dick wasn't hiding any more symptoms. Tim's biggest current concern was determining whether or not Dick's reluctance to actively assist Bruce with the long-shot chance of a cure was made out of unhealthy resignation or a healthy kind of acceptance. Tim talked to Dick, but aside from a factual recounting of everything that Dick could remember, Dick didn't want to talk about feelings or his reasons behind his decisions, and Tim didn't know whether or how to push. It didn't help that Dick would have been able to repeat everything that everyone said more or less verbatim before the incident. Now, he still had problems with his short term memory, and got frustrated when he couldn't recall everything with perfect precision.

Tim supposed he could just, you know, try to talk to Dick again. But perhaps he could figure it out through close and continued observation. Some might call it stalking. Tim thought of it as gathering data.

Tim spent another week and a half gathering data. After another fabulous dinner from Alfred - four different kinds of curries, including a vegetarian one for Damian, homemade naan bread, homemade chutney, two kinds of rice, Tim had a typical patrol for a Tuesday night. Busy, but no Arkham breakouts, no major supervillain activity, and Tim felt tired but productive by the end.

Bruce offered him a chance to sleep at the Manor, but Tim's own loft was so much closer. After showering and typing up his detailed report for the night, Tim spent an hour working on open cases before realizing that maybe he had a good chance of actually falling asleep that night. Tim sought out his bed, hopeful that his insomnia wouldn't be too bad tonight. He'd just fallen asleep when something woke him up. A sound, perhaps, or just the feeling of being watched. His fingers touched the handle of the golf club he kept next to his bed, waiting for another noise or movement to give away the intruder's position.

"Drake," an imperious voice greeted him.

Tim sat up, bringing the golf club with him. "Damian. I almost threw this at you."

Damian shrugged. "I would have dodged."

Tim rolled his eyes. "We just spent the last eight hours together. Why are you now sneaking into my bedroom?"

"I wanted to see if your security and reflexes in your own home are as pitiful as they seem to be at the Manor. It appears that they are."

Tim thought that now he really should throw the golf club at Damian, so he did. The brat easily evaded, so the club dented the wall behind him. Tim knew that he would dodge, which was fine, since Tim didn't actually want to hurt him. That was another change the last six weeks had wrought.

"So what are you doing here?" Tim demanded.

Damian glared at Tim, five feet three inches of tense muscle and adolescent angst. "Grayson." Damian cleared his throat. "I wish to talk about Grayson."

Tim sighed but got out of bed. "Let's go to the kitchen. I'll put on some tea." He padded out of the room. As he passed the dented wall, he pointed at it and said, "You're fixing that tomorrow."

"Tt. Only if you tell my why you used a golf club as a weapon." The words golf club were said which such disdain that it was if Damian's lips could barely shape the syllables.

Tim shrugged. "It doesn't make anyone suspicious if they see it in my bedroom, and the head drops off and the handle telescopes into a bo staff at the push of a button."

"Hmmm. Not a terrible idea. Maybe I wasn't a fool to seek out your counsel after all."

A wry smile twisted Tim's mouth. "Let's hope not."

After he started boiling the water, Tim made Damian sit down at one of the bar stools at the kitchen island. He studied the boy - teenager in just a few days. Damian was wearing black clothes but at least Tim didn't have Robin in his apartment. Tim reminded himself to find and plug whatever security hole Damian had exploited to let himself in.

"So, you wanted to talk about Dick. What's up?"

Damian traced a pattern on the granite that only he could see, then looked up at Tim with a fierce expression in his eyes. "Do you think Grayson has given up?"

Tim didn't show his surprise at being asked the same question that he'd been mulling over for the past two weeks.

He paused for a minute, gathering his thoughts. "No, I don't think so," he said, realizing that he believed it.

"Explain."

Tim got out two cups and other supplies to buy some time. One wrong word and Damian could explode, and Tim didn't actually want to pick a fight with him tonight. "So he had his checkup today, and the doctor cleared him for more exercise and activity?"

"You already know that she did."

"Rooibos okay?" At Damian's indifferent shrug, Tim continued. "So what's the first thing that he wants to do tomorrow?" Tim already knew the answer - Dick had texted him.

"Spar with me," Damian said, still glowering at Tim.

"What else does he want to do?" Tim scooped the loose leaf tea into his pot.

"Go for a run."

Tim nodded as he poured boiling water into his tea pot. "He wants to get back into fighting shape as soon as possible. Would he do that if he was giving up?"

Damian traced the whorls of the stone again before speaking. "No."

"I don't think Dick is giving up, but he knows that there's nothing he can do to fix his sight. It's not like there's therapy for him to try. So he is concentrating on the things that he can effect, and letting the rest go." Tim paused. It had been twenty-three seconds since he poured the water. "Can you understand that?"

"Yes," Damian conceded, pouting. "But he's acting like he thinks his sight isn't coming back."

"Maybe it isn't," Tim said gently.

"Why can't Father and Cyborg cure it? Cyborg has an implant for one of his eyes."

41 seconds. "That wouldn't help Dick. The problem is with his brain, not his eyes. We can't just replace an entire region of a human brain."

"Not yet, anyway."

"Not yet," Tim agreed. "There are some potential solutions, but they are still extremely preliminary. There are drawbacks and limitations with current technology and our understanding of the brain. Even alien tech can only help so much. But I know Bruce and everyone else is working very hard."

"So what can I do?"

"Spar with Dick. Help him with whatever he's working on right now. See if you can maybe work with him during therapy. I know it's difficult, but try to meet him where he is. Accept that right now he wants to focus on other things besides a cure that even I have to admit is a long shot." 97 seconds.

Damian looked at Tim, considering, head cocked. Tim had to admit that he looked almost . . . cute. "Very well, Drake. I will take what you said under advisement. Now please tell me that your ridiculous excuse for tea is brewed yet."

"Close enough," Tim said, thinking that Damian had gone almost two minutes without insulting anyone. Without insulting Tim in particular. Tim smiled. "Does Bruce know you're here?"

"I informed him, yes. I may very well stay here for the night."

"Knock yourself out, brat," Tim said without heat, pouring the tea. "Tell me more about how Dick's therapy has been going."

Damian gave Tim a flat stare. "I thought you would be sufficiently informed by the rest of the family."

Tim couldn't deny it. "True, but I want to hear it from you, too. What your opinion is."

Damian hid a tiny smile behind his tea cup as he took a cautious sip. "As you should."

Tim took a drink of his own, sitting down on a stool near Damian. The truce felt raw and tenuous but not uncomfortable. Maybe this could be the start of a real relationship between them.

"Of course, Drake, even you must be aware that rooibos isn't actually a type of tea."

Tim sighed. Or maybe they'll still murder each other one day.

The next afternoon, Tim was trying to finish reworking the R&D project Bruce didn't like before heading home when his phone buzzed on his desk.

Dick: hey tim call me when you can i am going crazy but no rush

The speech to text program Dick used could do punctuation, but Dick rarely bothered to dictate it. Tim frowned but decided to call Dick back before returning to the proposal. There was a chance Dick just wanted an audience to vent to, but he could be genuinely upset.

"Tim! That was fast!" Dick answered on the first ring.

"You caught me at a good time," Tim lied as he saved his document. "What's up?"

"Damian and Bruce are hovering. Constantly. I can feel them just . . . watching. I need to get out of here."

Tim couldn't help it; he chuckled a little.

"And I've asked them to stop trying to sneak up on me, and I'm pretty sure I hear them most of the time, and they promised to stop, but I don't think they can really help it."

"So now you're paranoid and don't know if you should be or not." Tim sighed.

"Exactly!"

"Do you want me to tell them to knock it off? Or better yet, get Alfred to tell them to knock it off?"

"I'll take you up on that if they don't stop soon, but for now, I really just need to get out of here."

Tim bit his lip, thinking through logistics, glancing at the proposal that Lucius had promised to review for him if he could get it to him before close of play today. "I can pick you up, but I've got at least another 30 minutes of work and then the time it'll take to drive out there, I won't be at the Manor much before 6:00. Is that too late?"

"I'm sorry, I know I'm a pest, but I -"

"Shut up, Dick." Operation Stop Dick From Being a Self-Sacrificing Idiot continued. "Let me figure something else out. Can you ask Alfred to drive you here? You can come up to my office or I could meet you in the lobby when I'm done?"

Dick hesitated before slowly saying, "Everyone knows me there, Tim."

Tim almost replied with 'of course they do,' before he realized that Dick was worried about. "They would be thrilled to see you. Lucius was just asking how you were earlier today."

"I know. I just don't think I'm ready. What if I met you at your place? It's not far from Wayne Tower. You haven't changed the lock again?"

Dick hadn't been to Tim's loft in months, since well before the accident, but if Dick didn't mind being alone in a new space then Tim didn't mind. It was a sign that Dick was doing so much better. "No, your key will still work. I can disable the rest of the security from my phone."

"Great, thanks."

"I'll finish this as soon as I can, then meet you there?"

"Okay, see you soon." And Tim knew that it was a common figure of speech, but he still flinched.

Tim raced through the rest of his proposal - 482 words in 36 minutes, spell check, quick proofread (sending typos to Lucius would be so embarrassing) - emailed it to Lucius then headed home.

He wasn't surprised that Dick was already there, sitting on Tim's couch in a hooded sweatshirt with a can of Tim's fancy flavored water. Tim saw a pair of sunglasses and a baseball hat on the coffee table in front of Dick, and Tim surmised that Dick had been trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. Tim kicked off his shoes, grabbed a can of his own, and joined his brother on the couch, shedding various parts of business Tim on the way. Bye-bye business Tim's tie, jacket and briefcase.

"Made it up okay?" Tim asked.

"I did." Dick looked pleased with himself. "And Alfred just dropped me off at the front door, so I went the rest of the way on my own."

"Nice. I bet it feels good to be away from big grumpy ninja-spy and baby grumpy ninja-spy."

Dick laughed. "Yes it does! Damian has been stalking me all day. He won't leave me alone. We sparred first thing in the morning - which was amazing - but then he keeps asking if I want help with therapy and following me from room to room."

"Oh! That's my fault. I didn't think he'd actually listen to me, but last night he asked for advice."

"Advice in dealing with me?" Dick raised an eyebrow. "There's a reversal of fortune."

"Heh. My exact words were 'try to meet Dick where he is.' Somehow that translated to stalking. Sorry about that."

Dick shook his head, smiling ruefully. "Not your fault, Timmy. In fact, I'm so happy that you two were talking. I'm proud of you."

Tim felt his ears burn and hung his head. "You know, you've been saying for years to give the kid a chance. I think I might be starting to get it now. He'd do anything for you."

Dick pulled Tim into a massive sideways hug. "You're a good brother too. Don't think I don't know that you rushed here as fast as you could, that you take my calls whenever you can, all the research you've been doing, and everything else."

Tim shook his head. "It's the least I can do."

Dick sighed and sat up straight again, pulling away from the hug, but he slid his hands down to grab Tim's wrists. Automatically, Tim shifted his hands to grip Dick's wrists in return in the acrobat's hold Dick had taught him long ago. Dick gave a brief squeeze in appreciation, so Tim relaxed, knowing that he'd done what Dick wanted.

"Tim, I've wanted to say something to you for a long time, and I don't have a good excuse for why I didn't say it sooner."

Tim looked at Dick, saw stress and guilt almost completely hidden, but Tim knew Dick and could read them in his face. Just like he knew what Dick was going to say. Tim tensed and tried to pull away. "Want to order pizza? Or Chinese?"

Dick didn't let go. "Tim. I'm sorry for the way I handled things when we thought Bruce was dead. I should have talked to you, I should have listened, we should have figured out things together. I'm so sorry."

Tim sighed. He really didn't want to have this conversation now. Or, well, ever. Thinking about the worst time of his life and rehashing it was definitely not on his to-do list. "Dick, you were in a bad place then."

"So were you, and I didn't need to make it worse." The three-year old hurt roiled in Tim's gut, and he remembered how alone and desperate he felt.

Tim huffed out another sigh, looked at Dick who almost seemed to be meeting his eyes, face earnest and . . . scared. Scared that Tim hadn't forgiven him, maybe. Or wouldn't. "It's taken me a while, but I think you were right to give Robin to Damian. I wish you'd had more of a conversation with me back then, but you couldn't let him go back to the League. Go back to being abused by his mother and grandfather, and with Bruce gone he needed a reason to stay."

"I'm sorry I took it from you like it did. Out of everybody, I should have known how much that hurts."

"And out of everybody, you are the only one who has the right to decide who's Robin."

Dick shook his head in fierce denial. "That's not how it's supposed to work, and that's not what I was thinking at the time." He still had Tim's hands, and Tim knew that Dick would never let him go again.

That old pain coiled in Tim's stomach flexed but then relaxed, and Tim decided to let some of it go. He breathed out again, this time thinking about releasing some of that fierce ache to the air, and he imagined it glowing bright white like phosphorous before dissipating.

"We're good now, Dick. I promise." Tim pulled Dick into a hug, and he almost never initiated that kind of contact, but it felt safe. It wasn't the same thing at all, but Tim imagined that Dick felt alone and desperate himself now.

"Thanks, kiddo," Dick mumbled into Tim's hair and Tim laughed to keep from crying.

"How about pizza and Chinese? I'm starving."

A few days later, Tim pulled up in front of the Manor to take Dick on a long-planned shopping trip. Before Tim could even make it to the steps up to the door, Alfred swung it open. Dick jogged down the stairs wearing a fedora, sunglasses, and a warm jacket against the November chill. Tim met him halfway and got swept up into a hug of greeting.

Alfred, who had stayed in the open doorway, raised an eyebrow. "Master Dick is looking forward to the outing."

"I can see that," Tim said with a grin. "We'll be back by dinner."

"What can I say, I'm just happy to be a free bird," Dick cracked and Tim groaned.

Tim walked Dick to the car and there was a second of awkwardness as Dick groped for the door handle, and Tim felt like he could have handled that better, but Dick didn't say anything, so Tim walked around and hopped into the driver's seat.

"Babs, Steph and Cass are going to meet us there," Tim said as he headed back to Gotham. "Do you have any idea what you're going to get the demon-brat for his birthday?"

"Don't call him that and I think I have an idea."

Dick and Tim chatted amiably the rest of the drive into Gotham, about current cases, Tim's job, gossip about other heroes, the family. Dick looked relaxed and happy and kept making bad jokes, so Tim felt content. Tim usually felt better when Dick or Bruce felt better. It made Tim feel like he was doing his job right.

Once inside, Dick took off his sunglasses and hat. "That's better," he said.

"Yeah, you don't look like a B list actor trying to hide from the paparazzi any more."

They met the three women at a coffee shop, fortified themselves with pastries and caffeine, then headed to a high end department store to shop for Damian. Dick had brought his cane, but was barely using it. He said that he wanted to relax and have fun today, so he preferred to use one of his siblings or friends if he needed a guide for this trip.

Tim noticed the looks the group got. He knew Steph, Cass and Babs did too. No one said anything to Dick. He knew Dick knew. Dick might not be able to see the looks but he wasn't stupid. People would see the blind man and the woman in a wheelchair and part like the Red Sea.

When they arrived at the store, Dick said that he wanted to buy Damian a cashmere scarf. Steph led them to the men's clothing section and flagged down a sales associate.

"What color do you think Damian would like, Dick?" she asked.

"Hmmm, what color best conveys I'm turning thirteen and I'm full of murderous intent?" Tim mused.

The sales person turned a snort into a cough.

Cass slapped Tim's shoulder. "Be nice."

"I don't care about the color," Dick said, ignoring Tim. "I want to find the warmest and softest one I can."

The sales person handed Dick several scarves. Dick felt each one, compared them, examined with his fingers. He even rubbed his favorite two against his cheek. Once he made his final choice, he asked for it to be gift wrapped.

"Do you want me to tell you the color?" Barbara asked tentatively.

For a second, Dick looked wistful, then shook his head with a genuine smile. "I think Damian will like it no matter what."

The next display case over had more men's accessories. Steph insisted Dick needed some new sunglasses and hats. Dick posed as he tried on each new item and made over the top faces and called everyone "darling." He bought every hat and pair of sunglasses that he tried on, even the pair that Barbara said made him look like Yoko Ono. Tim was sure he'd never seen a salesperson so quietly amused. And no doubt pleased at the commission.

Once the main errand had been accomplished, Dick said he still wanted to hang out. They wandered the mall, Dick switching between guides capriciously.

At one point as they walked, Dick wrinkled his nose. "That's a shoe store. I never noticed how . . . distinctive they smell." That wasn't the only store he could identify from smell. He could tell the difference between Lush and Bath and Body Works, Sephora from a candle store.

Shopping was not Tim's favorite activity, but these were some of his favorite people, and he was having fun. He thought Dick was too, until Steph grabbed his arm and pulled him back a few feet.

"Cass said that Dick is starting to get tired and stressed," she whispered right into his ear.

Tim glanced at Dick, who was laughing. Dick looked just fine to Tim, but Cass could tell if Dick was tiring before Dick himself was aware of it. He raised an eyebrow at Steph to communicate so what does she want me to do about it?

"Pedicures. Make it happen," Steph hissed and skipped away.

Tim rolled his eyes but pulled out his phone. Pedicures, she says. Make it happen, she says, he thinks to himself. Good thing I'm a genius with an AmEx black card. He thought for a minute, then hacked into the appointment calendar of a nearby hotel that had a reputation for discretion, which is how they ended up at a five star hotel spa an hour later.

All five of them were sitting in ridiculously comfortable massage chairs with their feet in hot water as the women giggled over the polish choices.

"This one is called 'Ladies and Magenta-men'" Steph laughed. "Dick, that sounds like one of your puns!"

"It is! They stole it from me. I demand royalties."

"I like this name better. It's more appropriate for the former boy hostage - 'All Tied Up,'" Babs said with a wicked grin. "Though I think it would look good on Steph."

Steph rolled a pale color around in her hands. "'Don't Bossa Nova Me Around.'"

Cass held up a different bottle. "This one. Dick needs this one."

"What's it called?" Dick asked.

"Don't know. But. It is perfect."

"Can you describe it to me?"

Cass smiled. "Your favorite shade of blue."

"You know, that blue," Steph interjected.

"With sparkles and glitter!" Cass concluded.

"It does sound perfect," Dick said. He grinned and relaxed even further into the chair with a small groan of contentment. His smile turned puckish. "I'll get my hands done too. Now who is going to describe Bruce's face to me when he sees it?"

Everyone laughed, and Tim smiled. "Cass, can you pick a color for me, please? The more glitter, the better."

Cass beamed at Tim and winked.

"Don't worry, Tim. You and Dick will both be pretty, pretty ponies," Steph said in a mock serious tone.

Dick cackled and gently wiggled his feet in the water. "This was a great idea. Thank you."

Tim leaned back against his chair and felt something tense in his shoulder ease just a touch. "You're right, Dick. The pedicures were an excellent idea."

Steph and Cass both cleared their throats pointedly.

Tim grinned. "Too bad I can't take credit for it."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Thanks for all of the comments, follows and favorites! My summer has been so crazy busy so thanks for bearing with me even though I've been posting less frequently.

Title for this chapter is from the poem "Simplicity" by Jorge Luis Borges. It really is perfect for this fic.

Come chat with me on tumblr at blog/caramelmachete


	15. To Reach the Highest Thing

To Reach the Highest Thing

Jason showed up at the Manor to chop vegetables at, well, not exactly at the butt-crack of dawn but much closer to it than he usually managed to get out of bed on a Sunday. He was here to help Alfred, and it had nothing to do with any affection for Damian the birthday boy, Jason told himself. Though Jason acknowledged that the demon-brat no longer seemed quite so bratty or demonic as he used to. Jason had seen new sides to the boy over the last couple of months.

Alfred greeted Jason with a warm nod and a hot cup of tea. Jason rolled up his sleeves and put on an apron that was identical to Alfred's, then drank the tea as Alfred gave him a run down of the plan for the day. They were making Tuscan white bean and kale soup, baked stuffed squash, sauteed chard, and mushroom risotto. Dessert would be chocolate souffles and a cheese plate. It was an ambitious menu for the two of them to cook for eight people, especially four days before Thanksgiving, but Jason knew they'd manage it.

Jason had finished his tea and was chopping vegetables when Dick walked into the kitchen, still in his pajamas and half-asleep.

"Good morning, Dickiebird," Jason sing-songed, making sure to sound extra chirpy and irritating.

Dick covered a yawn with his hand then mumbled, "Morning Jay, Alfred."

"If you could please bear with me for but a moment, Master Dick, I shall have a coffee ready for you soon."

"Thanks, Alfred." Dick padded over to the kitchen table and slid onto the built-in bench seating against the bay window.

"Late night?" Jason asked.

"Yes, actually. Cass and Steph took last night off from patrol and we stayed up way too late, gossiping and watching movies."

"Sounds like a sleepover."

"It was," Dick admitted.

Alfred handed Dick his coffee. Dick took it with a quiet "Thank you, Al" as he gripped the mug in both hands, and that's when Jason saw that Dick's fingernails were a vivid ultramarine blue. Glittery, sparkly, visible from across the room blue.

"Did they paint your fingernails too?" Jason asked.

"We got pedicures yesterday at some hotel, with Tim and Babs."

Jason repressed a vicious pang of jealousy that he hadn't been asked to get pedicures too. He probably wouldn't have come - he painted his own nails black sometimes but he hated the idea of a stranger touching his feet, especially in some stupid posh hotel - but if all of the older bats were doing it, he wanted to be invited. Damn. He thought that he was finally part of the family again, albeit begrudgingly sometimes. He thought they'd come farther than this. And for fuck's sake, he was pissed that it bothered him this much.

"Pretty sure pedicures are for feet," Jason said.

"They are. I wanted to get a manicure too, just for fun."

"Maybe you don't realize this, but it looks ridiculous." He'd meant it to sound like light-hearted teasing, but it came out much more venomous than he intended. Alfred glanced at Jason, concerned, but Jason waved him off.

Dick frowned, surprised at Jason's tone, then his expression cleared. "Oh, Jay, no, we didn't exclude you on purpose. We were shopping for Damian's present and Cass noticed that I was getting a bit tired and, um, I guess, stressed, so they decided to get pedicures as a spur of the moment thing."

Jason made a noncommittal noise in his throat and chopped through an onion with more force than was truly necessary. He was being a baby. He didn't know why he cared. Dick said it had been a spontaneous decision and Jason believed him. If Cass had noticed that Dick had been stressed, then he must have really needed a break. Jason tried to force himself to let go of some of his anger, always bubbling nearer to the surface than he wanted to admit.

"We did invite you shopping, and I believe your text response was that you'd rather die. Again."

"Shit, I did say that," Jason realized out loud.

"Language, Master Jason," Alfred tutted and Jason couldn't help but laugh. Still, enough of the initial flush of anger remained in the form of awkwardness, so, when Damian and Bruce strolled in for breakfast, Jason couldn't help but laconically say, "Have you seen Goldie's new look?"

Dick flashed a huge grin towards the doorway and fluttered his nails. Jason should have known that Dick would show them off proudly. Maybe Bruce and Damian's reactions would be amusing.

"Hnnnn," Bruce grunted. Jason mentally kicked himself. Of course Bruce wouldn't care. Maybe Damian would be better.

"Tt. Father, I'm not sure how you can be so blaise. It's hardly appropriate for stealth. It's very . . . bright. And _sparkly,_ " Damian said, voice full of disdain. "I also thought that painted nails were not acceptable on men."

"Damian, I'm disappointed in you. That is a very antiquated and offensive idea of policing gender roles," Dick said, very mildly, but Damian gave the tiniest flinch. He stared at the floor, not speaking.

After a pause during which it became clear that Damian was not going to respond out loud, Dick said, "Verbalize the non-verbal, Damian. I can't see you."

"Sorry for my comment," Damian muttered. Dick gave Damian a look of approval. "Though you must admit that bright blue glitter is not conducive to a secret identity."

Dick did not wince at the reminder, and replied in a steady voice, "Well, good thing I don't have one at the moment."

"What do you think, Bruce? You've got to verbalize your nonverbal communication too, for Dickie, remember? He's not going to let you get away with grunts and glares," Jason couldn't help but goad.

Bruce accepted his cup of coffee from Alfred and took a sip before responding. "I think it would have matched the first Nightwing costume nicely."

"Thank you, Bruce," Dick responded with dignity.

Damian looked between Bruce and Dick, not quite sure if he was being teased or not.

Dick smiled. "Anyway, happy birthday, baby bat." He held his arms out for a hug. For a moment, Damian looked like he was about to refuse to hug his oldest brother in front of his dad, another brother, and Alfred, but stalked over to Dick and submitted himself to a hug. Once in Dick's arms, though, he looked quiet and pleased before pulling himself away, his expression as soft as Jason had ever seen it. Dick ruffled his hair as he escaped, and Dick also looked content. Jason pushed away another little stab of jealousy.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Jason knew that he was spending more time driving to and from the Manor these last two months than he ever had before, especially this last week. Damian's birthday, Thanksgiving, more golf cart shenanigans on Friday with the whole family - even Bruce - since no one had to work, and now back again on Saturday evening to pick up Dick for a night out with some of the other former Titans.

"Master Jason, such a pleasure to see you again," Alfred said warmly. "I do hope you realize how delighted I am that you are visiting so frequently."

Jason blushed but smiled, and forced himself not to scuff his boots on the floor like an awkward adolescent.

"Let me take your coat," Alfred continued. "Master Dick is running a few minutes late, I'm afraid."

Jason handed Alfred two motorcycle helmets so he could shrug off his coat, and Alfred's genial expression turned stern.

"I do hope that you weren't planning on taking your brother, who is recovering from a _brain injury_ , out for a ride on a _motorcycle._ "

Jason hid a wince, feeling both guilty - Alfred had a point - and defensive. "I only _have_ motorcycles. I didn't have any other options."

"I would be more than willing to let you borrow a car."

Jason refused to meet Alfred's eyes. "I don't want to borrow anything from Bruce."

"Whoever said anything about borrowing from Bruce? He's hardly the only one to have cars in the family. I am offering you the use of one of mine."

Thirty minutes later, Jason and Dick were on the road in a meticulously maintained but ancient Volvo station wagon.

"Roy is going to think that this is hilarious," Jason grumped.

"I know! I was actually looking forward to getting a ride on a motorcycle," Dick said. "No one can disagree with Alfred."

Jason sighed. "You're right. No one disagrees with Alfred."

Jason had fretted over the choice of bar, probably more than he should have. He wanted it to be quiet, not only so they could hear themselves talk to each other but he also wasn't sure if a loud environment would bother Dick. Of course, the place couldn't be quiet because it was terrible - that wouldn't be fun for anyone. Finally, Jason found one in Gotham's business district. Most of its trade came during the workweek, from lunch and happy hour for office workers. Weekends tended to be slow, and everyone said the food was delicious. Jason felt that was important, since he doubted Dick would drink alcohol.

When Jason and Dick arrived, Donna had already snagged a table in the corner. She got up when she saw them, and after a hug for both of them, she let Dick take the corner seat. Jason didn't mind when she and Dick started a quiet conversation, too low for Jason to hear. They had a lot to catch up on.

Roy and Kori arrived together, everyone ordered, and Wally showed up just before the food arrived. Obviously.

Jason had been a Titan for like five minutes, so he was content to just listen as the others reminisced. He perked up when the conversation moved to embarrassing moments.

"Do you remember when we convinced Wally that his soap was defective?" Dick asked.

Wally groaned. "It was defective! It didn't work!"

"How can soap not work?" Jason asked.

Roy started to laugh. "He came running out of the shower, in just a towel, moaning about his broken soap."

"It would not make the foam," Kori explained. "He could not make it lather."

"So Dick and Roy told him that the water wasn't hot enough, and he needed to try again with hotter water," Donna said, eyes sparkling with remembered mirth.

"He kept turning the heat up and up. Finally he burst out the bathroom again, skin bright red, howling that his soap still didn't work," Dick said.

"You're all assholes. I hate all of you," Wally muttered darkly.

"Donna and I did not participate in this prank!" Kori protested.

"Yeah, but you laughed!"

"You were as red as a lobster," Donna said, grinning. "Yelling 'It's broken, it's broken!'"

"So how did you break the soap?" Jason asked.

"Roy and I coated it in clear varnish," Dick chuckled. Everyone laughed, except for Wally, who buried his face in his hands.

"What about the time we froze a bowl of milk and cereal and gave it to Wally?" Roy said with a wicked smile.

"You are all dead to me," Wally said. "Messing around with a speedster's food is not funny."

The evening continued with stories of more pranks and embarrassing anecdotes, the nachos and buffalo wings were amazing, and Jason thought he'd found a new favorite place to go to on weekends.

Driving Dick home, Jason said, "I had a good time. We should do this again." Watching Dick laugh and joke with friends had been more rewarding than Jason had expected it to be, and teasing Wally was always fun.

"I'd like that. It's so hard to find a time that works for everyone, though," Dick sighed.

"I'll arrange something. At least once a month. I'll make them."

"Thanks, Jaybird."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Jason was attempting to fix the carburetor from his oldest motorcycle when "Circus" by Britney Spears played on his phone. He wiped his hands clean and answered.

"Hey, Dickface."

"Hi, Little Wing. I need a favor, and I know that Alfred or Babs or someone would do it, but I'd . . . I think I'd prefer it if you did it."

"Well, what is it?" Jason asked cautiously. He couldn't think of a single thing that the golden boy would rather ask Jason, the black sheep of the family, instead of Alfred or anyone else.

"I need to get to Bludhaven, take care of something, and then back to Gotham."

"Okay . . ." Jason wasn't really sure what the drama was just for a round trip to Bludhaven. Sure, it could be an hour each way depending on traffic, but any of the family would be happy to drive him. Even Damian and he couldn't legally drive.

Dick interpreted Jason's confusion as refusal, and spoke quickly. "You know what, never mind, I can take a taxi, maybe, I didn't really want to ask Bruce or Tim since it's during the work day, and, I just don't think, I really don't want Alfred, he'll be too nice about it, and I don't want that."

"So you don't want me to be . . . nice?" Whatever this mysterious errand was, it seemed to be really bothering Dick.

"Exactly!" Dick exclaimed, as if pleased that Jason finally understood, though Jason still had no clue.

"You want anything else?" It couldn't be as simple as just the ride.

"Yeah. Just come in with me, because I don't want . . . It would be better if you walked me in, so I wouldn't have to . . ."

"Okay, okay, Dickiebird. Whatever you need." Jason was still confused, but he gathered that Dick wanted an escort to and from a building, in Bludhaven. Either he thought it would be hard to navigate on his own with his cane skills, or he didn't want . . . Oh, of course. He didn't want people to notice him.

"Can you do tomorrow? Amy said she's free at 11:00, so we can get lunch after, if that works?"

Jason suddenly realized where Dick wanted to go, and why he didn't want to do it alone. "No problem. Tomorrow works." Shit. Jason knew that this task was going to be hard for Dick.

"I can get a taxi or Alfred to take me to your place, so you don't have to go out of the way to the Manor. Or we could meet somewhere if you don't want to give me your address."

"No, it's fine. I'll text you my address, okay?" Jason said gruffly. "Meet here at 10:00, if you think that will give us enough time?" Jason wouldn't have minded swinging by the Manor to pick him up, but he didn't want Dick to think that Jason didn't trust him enough to share his address. It would needlessly hurt Dick's feelings and Jason didn't want that. That thought surprised him even as he realized it's truth.

"That sounds great. See you tomorrow."

Jason hung up the phone. Dick was going to have a tough day tomorrow, and Jason wished that his brother didn't have to go through it, but Jason felt a weird feeling that he had been asked. Happiness, maybe.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Dick arrived promptly at 10, and Jason buzzed him up. Dick was dressed casually, old jeans, navy hooded sweatshirt underneath a well-worn leather jacket, and he had sunglasses perched on his head. Jason knew that Dick only wore his sunglasses when it was very bright outside - which today definitely was not - unless he was trying to be incognito.

"Want the grand tour?" Jason offered, feeling awkward. "Or do you want to hit the road?"

"Let me show you something, if that's okay." Dick took an unsealed envelope out of his inner jacket pocket and handed it to Jason. Jason lead them over to the kitchen table before opening the envelope.

Jason found a brief and professional resignation letter inside, succinct and with minimal details, simply citing medical reasons that precluded Dick from returning to active duty. Jason studied Dick's face after he read it. Dick looked perfectly calm, though he must have known that Jason would try to appraise him.

"You sure you're ready to do this?" Jason asked, not giving the letter back.

Dick shrugged, facial expression not changing. "Not really," he admitted, "but my disability leave is about to run out, so I felt like I had to. I didn't want to put Amy in a difficult position, especially since it didn't happen on the job."

"Well, the other job."

"Which just makes it even more awkward for her, since she knows about the other job. So does it look okay?"

"It looks fine. I mean, I'm not exactly an expert in formal resignation letters, but I think it's good. No mistakes or anything."

Dick gave a small smile. "Good. I double-checked it, but it's good to have someone else read it too. Now, can you help me with something else? "

"Sure."

Dick fished out a card from his wallet and handed it to Jason. The card had a rectangular shape cut out of the middle. "Put that little window where the signature should be."

Jason obliged and Dick found the signature hole with his fingers and then signed in the space with his other hand. The signature looked perfect. Dick fanned the paper to make sure the ink wouldn't smear, then folded the letter back up carefully and returned it to his pocket.

"You sure that you want to do this?" Jason asked a final time.

"Yes, I am," Dick replied confidently, still not betraying any emotion on his face. Compared to how uncertain he'd sounded on the phone yesterday, Jason wasn't sure where the determination had come from, but Dick seemed to have found some peace with his decision overnight. Or he was just a stubborn bastard. Of course, both could be true.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Jason still had the old but reliable Volvo, which made their drive to 'Haven in the December wind much more comfortable than any of Jason's motorcycles would have done. A few minutes before 11:00, Jason pulled into the visitor lot of Dick's old precinct.

"We're here. You ready?"

Dick pulled his hood up, popped on his sunglasses and got out of the car as his answer, leaving his cane behind.

"You think you'll be able to get in and out without being recognized?" Jason asked as he walked around to Dick's side and offered his arm.

"Maybe. No one is expecting me besides Amy. Just get to the reception, leave me by the chairs, and tell the officer at the front desk that your name is Patrick Schmidt and you have an appointment with Lieutenant Rohrbach."

"Is the subterfuge really necessary?" Jason asked, chuckling a little.

"Funny, Amy asked the same question, but she agreed to play along."

Jason followed Dick's instructions, and soon Amy Rohrbach met Dick and Jason in the reception. Amy nodded to Jason - they had met when she visited Dick in the hospital - but stepped up to Dick and escorted him away. Jason sighed and took out a paperback squeezed into his coat pocket.

Amy walked Dick back to Jason half an hour later, stood up on her toes to whisper something in Dick's ear, and said out loud, "Keep in touch, Grayson."

Jason and Dick walked back to the car in silence. After Jason slid back into his seat and turned the heating on, he looked over at Dick. Dick removed his sunglasses, pressed his hands to his eyes for a moment, then turned to Jason.

"Let's get some fish and chips. I know a great place by the shore that doesn't smell too badly of sewage."

-O-O-O-O-

Dick and Jason ate their meals sitting on a concrete retaining wall, facing the ocean. The wind from earlier had died down, making the temperature as close to pleasant as December could get. Still, they ate quickly before the food could cool too much. While he was eating, Jason looked out at the view. Pale sand curved off in both directions, stretching to a derelict drilling platform on the left, like a crumbling apatosaurus fossil in an abandoned museum. The docks polluted and churned to the right, but the wind blew most of the noise and smell away. Irrepressible sun beams fought through the scudding clouds, rewarded for their efforts by being scattered and multiplied across the grey surface of the ocean, gleaming along the waves, shining platinum against the dullness.

"You're right, these are the best fish and chips I've had on this side of the pond," Jason said when he'd finished the last vinegar-soaked chip.

"Glad you liked them. The owner moved here from Bristol about five years ago."

Jason carefully folded his wrapper into half, exact corner to exact corner, then smoothed the wrinkles with his thumb. "Why didn't you talk to Bruce about what you did today?" he asked, his voice quiet against the rush of the surf.

"Who said I didn't?"

"I figured it out. You and Replacement aren't the only detectives grumpy-butt trained." Jason flattened the crease with his thumb against his jeans, looking at Dick only out of the corner of his eye. "You could have easily asked Alfred or anyone for help with the signature, but you didn't. Which means that B doesn't know."

Dick huffed and rubbed the back of his neck. "You're right. I didn't want him to talk me out of it."

"Why not?" Jason asked, keeping any hint of judgement or curiosity out of his voice.

"It's complicated."

Jason made an encouraging noise in the back of his throat.

Dick sighed again and his hands spasmed in his lap before stilling. When he answered, his tone was even, like he was giving a report to Bruce about a dull patrol. "The department gives two months of leave to someone with my length of service, and it expires soon. I could have gone on non-paid hiatus, which is normally reserved for someone who will recover but just needs more time. Amy would have let me do that indefinitely, which means that I could be rehired without jumping through too many hoops, but I didn't want anyone to accuse her of playing favorites."

"Why would that be considered favoritism?"

"For fuck's sake, Jason," Dick snapped, his control dissolving. "It would be abusing the purpose of the extended leave, since I'm not going to magically get better and everyone but Bruce knows it."

Jason held up his hands in the universal gesture for peace, until he recalled his own words to Bruce on Damian's birthday. "Sorry. I didn't think through the implications."

Dick's lips twisted like he was sucking on a lemon. "You know that Bruce will, and I am not ready to have that conversation with him. Alfred would have kept my secret, but I hate putting him in that position. Steph and Cass - they would have been so sympathetic. So kind. Whatever else is between you and I, at least I don't think you _pity_ me."

"The only thing I pity about you is your nickname. Actually, not even that, since it's such a comedy goldmine. Dickface."

Dick actually laughed at that, tossing his head back and guffawing. If the laughter was perhaps a bit hysterical for the quality of the joke, Jason didn't say anything.

"Why not Babs?" Jason asked neutrally when Dick was quiet again.

An expression of guilt and pain flitted across Dick's face before he gained control of his expression. "She would have been understanding, and calm, and empathetic. She would tell me what she thought I needed to hear, not what I wanted to hear. She'd tell me get over myself when I wallow but hug me when I needed a hug. It would be great, but it'd be painful for her. I think being around me upsets her. She doesn't want to see me going through what she did."

"I think you're giving her both too much credit and not enough credit."

"Maybe," Dick said doubtfully, "but either way I can't deal with it now. Too much baggage. For both of us."

"Fair enough," Jason said. He folded the greasy paper again, several times, flattening it each time, before venturing, "She's not the only one who had to rebuild, when their life as they knew it was over."

"Jay," Dick breathed. Jason knew that Dick realized what Jason was offering, and was grateful.

After sitting in silence as the waves argued with the beach below them, Dick asked "Are you happy, now?"

Jason had not been expecting that question. The paper in his hands was as small as he could possibly fold it, still perfectly square. "Yeah, I think so. Not every day, or even most days, but overall, I think I am."

"So how did you know? That life was okay again?"

Jason studied the radiant reflections dancing across the waves, heard the defiant caws of the gulls. Dick sat perfectly still, barely breathing, waiting for Jason's answer. Jason took his time to marshal his thoughts into words.

"One day, you'll be in your kitchen. It's yours. Yours alone. You only share it when and if you want to. Maybe you're doing the dishes. Maybe you're eating something good that you cooked yourself. A song comes on. It's something stupid, like Journey or Phil Collins, that you'd never admit to anyone else that you know all the words to. You start singing along. You start dancing, or playing air guitar. Maybe you do the drum solo with your silverware. You realize that your blinds are open, and all of your neighbors can see you. But you don't care. You're just fucking grateful."

The wind picked up again, and Dick zipped up his jacket and hugged himself against the chill. "Do you really think so?"

"You'll get there. I'll help, if you want. I can't promise that I'll hug you, but I'll definitely punch you when you deserve to be punched."

Dick laughed. "How is that different to before, exactly?"

"It's not, except that we can talk about 80's music after."

"Sounds good to me," Dick said as he stood up and offered Jason his hand. "Thanks, little wing. I needed to hear that."

Jason let Dick pull him up.

"Tell anyone I like Journey, and I'll kill you," Jason said as Dick's hand gripped his bicep.

"I love you too, Jason."

"Shut up, Dickhead."

 _Author's Note:_ Sorry this one took so long! But I'm proud of this chapter and I hope you enjoyed it.

Title of this chapter is from the poem 'Simplicity' by Jorge Lois Borges.


	16. The Night We Constructed

The annual Wayne Foundation Christmas Gala did not go well.

Damian pressed himself as far into the corner of the limousine's back seat at he could go, arms crossed. Father sat next to him, carefully not touching any one. Cain was curled into a ball on the sideways-facing seat next to Brown, and Grayson was next to Drake on the backwards seat. Even in the dim and intermittent light of the street lamps, Damian could see Grayson's clenched jaw.

"That . . . could have gone better," Drake finally admitted into the strained silence as Pennyworth started the drive home.

"God, I was worried that things would go wrong . . ." Brown said, voice trailing off into silence.

"If you had concerns, you should have voiced them before the event. Now it's just useless drivel," Damian said.

"I told you that it was too soon," Father admonished Grayson.

Grayson held his hands up in denial. "None of that is on me. If these supposed high-society people had manners and common decency, nothing would have happened."

"And didn't try to _grope_ people," Brown muttered.

"I think Dick had that part covered under common decency," Drake said.

"If we had waited until the gossip and speculation died down, perhaps you wouldn't have been as swamped," Father said.

"Bruce, it doesn't matter if I'd waited three years instead of three months," Grayson said. "The first time I made a formal appearance, something like this would have happened."

"Maybe not the waiter dropping a tray full of glasses," Drake mused, "which made you go into Nightwing mode."

"I thought it was a window shattering," Grayson said.

Damian clenched his fists. "I never should have left your side. Then that harridan wouldn't have grabbed your arm."

"She thought she was helping," Drake said.

"There was no danger! It was merely a few dozen broken champagne flutes. She just wanted her harpy hands all over Grayson's bicep!" Damian snapped.

"Better bicep than b-"

"Steph!" Drake yelped as Cain simply put her hand over Brown's mouth.

Despite the situation, Grayson laughed shakily. "I do appreciate you being there to defend my honor."

Brown leaned in closer to Cain. "Well, while Damian was trying to fight Mrs. Cuevas, Cass was the only one who noticed that Dick was about to have a panic attack."

Damian said, "At least I noticed that the virago -"

"Who?" Cain interrupted.

"He means Mrs. Ballard," Tim explained. "In the burgundy dress. Lots of, um, cleavage. Cheetah pattern Louboutin shoes."

Both Cain and Brown made a noise of disgust.

"As I was saying, the other woman was trying to put her arm around Grayson's waist," Damian continued. "Much much lower than is . . . socially acceptable."

"So Cuevas goes for the arms while her friend goes for the bu-"

"Steph!" Drake shouted again.

" _Anyways_ , Cass was the one who got Dick out of there and into the limo," Brown said.

"Perhaps if we had waited until you don't get so easily overwhelmed - " Father said before Damian cut him off.

"I'm going to eviscerate them all," Damian hissed.

"I'll help," Drake said and Damian nodded his approval.

"Just because Jason doesn't have to go to these things, doesn't mean he'd want to be left out," Brown said.

"No one is eviscerating anybody," Father warned.

"Not everyone was as bad as Mrs. Cuevas and Mrs. Ballard," Grayson protested.

"True," Drake said. "But even before that, you had to deal with people trying to help you without your permission, and asking if you have super hearing now, and telling you about their second cousin who lost an eye while clay shooting and how that's exactly the same."

"I swear, if I hear one more person say to Grayson that he's 'such an inspiration,' I will flay them slowly, starting from the -"

"Damian!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Damian knew that he didn't have much standing to complain, and yet he couldn't stop thinking to himself how stressful sparring with Grayson was. No head shots, of course, and no take downs. Easy enough to comply, but essential, so it must always be kept in mind. No letting muscle memory take over. He had to push Grayson hard enough that Grayson didn't feel coddled, but he couldn't forget that Grayson wasn't 100% yet, even disregarding his sight. Sometimes Damian blindfolded himself, to even things out, but then he worried that somehow he'd mess up and Grayson would end up with a blow to his head.

Still, he didn't want any of his reluctance to show. No one else seemed to have any problems with it. Never one to admit that other people might be better at some things, Damian made to sure to make himself available, even proactively offer if he hadn't had a turn in a couple of days. Usually Grayson jumped at the chance, always eager to to practice, and they'd 'hang out' as Grayson said afterward.

When Grayson declined one day, citing a headache, Damian didn't find it too strange. Even two headaches in a row didn't cause much suspicion. The headaches were getting better, but they might never go away completely. That's what Damian told himself when Grayson declined for the third time.

After the debacle at the gala, no one suggested that Grayson should attend any more balls or parties this season, and Grayson didn't ask to. He seemed to be constantly busy, working on projects in his room, having low-voiced conversations on his phone. Damian bugged Grayson's room, but Grayson found them the same day. Damian couldn't easily recall the last time that he'd seen Grayson so furious, so he promised to not do it again. Despite the part of his brain that remembered the League's teaching whispering for him to break him promise, Damian refrained from planting any more listening devices.

Then came the email from Drake to the whole family, saying that Grayson had strongly requested that the schedule of constant companions go on hiatus for now. According to Drake, Grayson said that he still appreciated the company, but that when he had a family member with him, he had a harder time doing things on his own. He knew that everyone just wanted to help, but he needed to work on his independence.

Damian emailed back to Todd and Drake immediately, demanding a meeting. He felt like they were failing Grayson, somehow. Obviously Grayson was no longer going to be distracted by golf cart games and the other ephemera that Todd and Drake had been offering.

"Look, short stack, I think Dick's doing okay," Todd said when they finally met face to face.

Drake nodded agreement. "He's going to want to move back to his own place sooner or later, so it makes sense for him to gain some independence before that happens."

"You both are failing to understand my point. He's using that as an excuse to pull away from us," Damian said. "He's been actively avoiding not only me but everyone as well."

"Well, Bruce has been avoiding Dick more than the reverse," Jason said.

"Father is spending every possible free minute working on a cure!"

Drake frowned. "I've been helping Bruce, but he's deluding himself if he thinks anything like a 100% cure is going to happen in the near-term."

Damian crossed his arms and glared. "That is besides my main point. Grayson is withdrawing from everyone."

"You saying he's brooding? Like Bruce? Dickiebird doesn't do that," Todd scoffed.

Drake, however, looked thoughtful. "You two weren't around the first time he lived in Bludhaven, when all that stuff with Blockbuster went down. He pushed everyone away."

"Do you think he could be doing that again?" Damian demanded.

Drake pursed his lips, considering. "I think it's possible. But I'm not really sure what to do - trying to talk to him last time didn't work."

Damian hesitated. He knows no one has brought it up before, but it can't remain unsaid forever. "There's always the Pit."

Damian was only a little surprised when neither Drake or Todd objected immediately. Finally, Todd sighed. "Dick knows it's there. Knows it's an option."

Drake closed his eyes, squeezed them tight, then opened them again. "If he wanted it, he would have asked."

"Maybe he just doesn't want to put me in a position of having to beg a favor from Mother and Grandfather," Damian said.

"That may be part of it, but it's more likely that he doesn't want to go crazy," Todd snorted.

Drake nodded his agreement. "If Dick ever changes his mind, he knows that you would do anything at all in your power for him. Let him ask you, if that's what he wants, but don't bring it up to him."

Damian could reluctantly see the wisdom in their words, but that left him with few options.

"So what do we do?" Damian asked.

"I don't know," Drake admitted.

Todd shrugged. "I guess we just need to keep letting him know we're here if he needs us."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Damian wandered through the house and knocked on Grayson's door, feeling unusually awkward.

"Come in, Dames."

Damian pushed open the door and stepped through, looking around. Grayson's apartment had always been untidy, and when he'd stayed at the Manor his room usually looked like half his suitcase had spilled over the floor. Now, though, he kept everything neat and organized, no clothes on the floor, desk regimented.

Grayson was at his desk, a large braille book open in front of him. "What do you need, Little D?"

"Would you like to walk Titus with me? It looks like it might be a nice day, for December."

"Thanks for thinking of me, but I'm practicing Braille right now and making some good progress. Maybe tomorrow?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Grayson didn't brood all of the time. Especially when more than one family member was around. Damian thought about how unfair it was - that Damian alone was no longer enough - but then he was furious at himself. It was not true, not really. When Damian could be quiet, and still, and didn't push for anything from Grayson, his brother seemed grateful for the company. As long as Damian didn't ask any questions about Grayson's recovery. .

Grayson had always been very physically affectionate. Pennyworth called it "kinesthetic." Todd called it "touchy-feely" with a derisive snort. Since Clayface, this trait was even more pronounced. Damian watched Grayson drop on the couch next to Todd, pull him into a brief sideways hug, then casually lean against him shoulder to shoulder. Todd made a face of exaggerated dismay, though that seemed to be more for comic effect than true annoyance, since he adjusted position slightly so Grayson could be more comfortable. When his fake scowl faded, Todd looked quite content.

Damian thought about his own interactions with Grayson in the last few months. He was allowing Grayson more hugs and hair tousles than he ever had before. Father, when entering or leaving a room, would rumble a brief greeting or goodbye and make sure to squeeze Grayson's shoulder. Perhaps, Damian realized, Grayson wasn't actually more in need of touch, but that the rest of the family finally allowing him the affection he'd always wanted.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Christmas. Grayson seemed wistful, almost sad, whenever he thought that no one was watching him. But Damian always watched him, whenever they were in the same room, from the hallway peering into a room, from the stair balcony. Damian knew on one level that some people might consider what he was doing creepy, but Damian figured that since Grayson wasn't communicating with anybody, the family had few other options. This was Damian's only choice, so really, it was Grayson's own fault. If he didn't want to be spied on, he should be more talkative.

Damian felt like he was leaving Grayson alone too often attending the obligatory winter parties and balls - that they all were - but Grayson reassured everyone over and over that he was fine, and he had plenty to keep him busy while they were out.

Christmas morning had many moments when it was easy to forget. Pennyworth outdid himself with his cookies and home-made candy, Christmas dinner was outstanding, and Grayson grinned during the present openings, laughing as Brown, Drake and Todd tried to compete to see who could do the most hilarious descriptions of the opening process and presents. However, Damian observed some moments of melancholia, like when Brown complimented Alfred on how beautiful the tree looked this year. Damian elbowed her in the ribs.

Damian couldn't deny that he was nervous about his own present to Grayson. He needn't have worried, though.

Grayson's fingers traced the minimalist, modern face of the watch. The lines marking the hours were raised. Inside the hour marks, a circular track contained a tiny ball bearing, that moved around the circle to show the minutes. Another ball bearing on the outside of the watch marked the hours. The time could be read by sight or touch.

Brown let out a soft whistle of appreciation. "That is gorgeous."

Grayson grinned as he put the watch on his wrist, his eyes sparkling. "Thank you, Dami."

New Years. Grayson stayed home from the party, saying that he had research to do. Drake and Damian separately offered to stay with him, but he declined their offers. He said that he didn't really stay up that late anymore, since he's actually sleeping like a normal person and not a bat. Drake shrugged. Damian stewed.

A week later Dick sat Damian and Bruce down. Damian studied his father's face - he didn't look surprised in the slightest. Whatever it was, Father knew.

"Damian," Grayson began earnestly, "I found a school for blind adults that I'm going to attend. It's residential, and I'm leaving in a week."

Damian glanced between Father and Grayson. "Where is it?"

"In Denver, Colorado."

"That is a pitiable excuse for a jest, Grayson."

"It's true. The other one I was looking at is in California - even further away."

"What can you do in Colorado? Become a cowboy? Partake in legal cannabis?"

"Skiing, actually."

Bruce shifted, a tiny movement that few people would even register, but enough to betray his discomfort. "It's one of the most highly regarded institutions of it's type."

Damian levelled a furious stare at Father. "You are in on this ludicrous idea?"

Father shook his head, face showing no emotion. "Dick informed me last night, but I haven't been involved in any of the planning."

"I'm sorry to spring this on you, Little D."

"You may not call me that," Damian hissed.

Grayson's face fell for a split second before he forced a neutral expression again. "I didn't mean to keep it a secret. I've been looking into some options since the gala, but I didn't make up my mind until New Years."

"What does this school have that we can't provide?" Damian asked.

"All of the instructors and most of the staff are visually impaired. They teach complete independence. I've arranged everything with help from Babs and Alfred, and my therapists for the brain injury will either follow me or we can find substitutes."

"How long will you be gone?" Father said.

"I'm not sure how long I'll be gone. I'll come back when I think that I am ready, but at least three months total, I think. At that point, the six month milestone for TBI recovery will have passed, so I can re-evaluate."

"Three months is . . . not an insubstantial amount of time," Damian said slowly.

Dick said, "Students - people - normally stay at least six months at the school, but I don't think that I want to stay that long."

"Why do you have to leave? Haven't we found you the best of everything here? Great instructors, great therapists?" Damian demanded.

"You have. Bruce, Babs and Alfred especially. I wouldn't have come this far without the people that I've been working with. But I can't stay here, listening to everyone leave every single night, not knowing when you'll get back. Not knowing if I'll ever be able to join you, and facing the reality that I probably won't."

Bruce made a sound of protest, of fierce denial. Dick turned to face him and glared, and Bruce subsided. Damian thought that he'd never seen such a thing before, and kind of hoped that he never would again. The guilt on Father's face. Damian felt grateful that Grayson couldn't see it.

"Why do you need to leave Gotham?" Damian asked.

"I just need a change. A fresh start. I'll come back," Dick said gently. Kindly.

Damian wanted to scream.

"I got you on the waiting list for a seeing eye dog," he blurted instead.

"Dami. Little D. I appreciate the gesture but you shouldn't have. I know your heart was in the right place, but that's the kind of decision I need to make for myself."

"Isn't a guide dog always better?"

"Not always, not for everyone. I'm not ready to decide, yet. Besides, most organizations don't want you to move house that first year after getting a guide dog."

"Move? What do you mean, move?"

"I'm not going to stay at the Manor forever. I've talked it over with Bruce, and we think that the penthouse is a good compromise between Bludhaven and living here. I'm already familiar with it, it's far enough away that I can feel independent, but still a lot more accessible than the Haven. I'll be within walking distance of Tim -"

"A long walk!" Damian protested.

"And Jason isn't that much farther. And you can come see me whenever you want."

"If you think that I'll deign to -" Damian started, but Father gripped his arm and squeezed.

"Don't say anything you'll regret," Father said.

Grayson smiled. "I'll miss you too, Damian."


	17. Fighting Over a Comb

Dick discovered that he had missed living alone. Donna, Babs, Wally and even Roy had told Dick that he's not built for living or working alone on a permanent basis. While there was some truth to that, Dick also craved freedom. Sometimes moving two-thirds of the country away was the only way to get it.

The school housed the students in two bedroom apartments. Dick was lucky that he didn't have a roommate yet, though the next male student would move into Dick's apartment. The school didn't have formal semesters. People started on a rolling basis, and stayed until they were ready to graduate, normally six to nine months. Dick hoped that he'd be able to meet the graduate requirements in three, since he'd already been working one-on-one with some of the best instructors on the East Coast for three months. He hadn't decided to attend the school because he thought that it was the only way to learn the skills, but because he needed to get away from his overbearing family. He'd never learn full independence with their constant hovering and spying. He'd been pleasantly surprised how much more effective the lessons were when he was immersed in the school environment all day, every day.

A side benefit was being surrounded by other students going through the same thing that he was. Dick had been looking forward to that, and now that he was here, he was gaining even more from it than he'd hoped. Some of the fellow students had been visually impaired for years but had decided to learn new skills, others had slowly been losing their sight from various degenerative conditions. Currently, Dick was the only one who had gone from fully sighted to blind in a traumatic accident, though the school had taught students in those circumstances before.

Dick hadn't been completely left alone by his friends for the first three weeks. Donna helped him move in the first weekend. Wally had run down twice to visit, though the second visit was allegedly just so he could go back to the amazing Mexican restaurant they'd gone to the first time. But Dick didn't want anyone to go out of their way or make special arrangements to come see him. Wally hardly counted because he could run to Denver in minutes.

Twenty-two days passed between Dick's arrival in Denver and his first unannounced visitor. Longer than Dick had expected, in a way.

Dick arrived back to his apartment, exhausted from an intense workout first thing in the morning, a long day of classes, and then essentially another workout from physical therapy afterwards. All he wanted to do was take a hot shower and then heat up one of the meals Alfred had overnighted packed in dry ice. Dick could cook, despite what Jason thought, even now. It just required more effort than he felt like expending tonight.

The minute Dick opened the door to his flat, he knew someone was already in the room. They were sitting still, but he could hear them breathing. He smelled a faint whiff of cologne.

"Bruce. I thought I made my request for space clear, even for you," Dick said flatly, taking off his leather jacket and boots. "Breaking and entering is hardly a good first step."

Dick hung up his things and walked past Bruce to the kitchen. He sighed as he tried to decide if he should offer to heat up extra food for Bruce, too. It wasn't fair. The man got to eat Alfred's cooking every day. Making up his mind, Dick turned back to Bruce.

"I'm starving, and since you showed up unannounced, you're buying dinner. Did you rent a car?"

"Yes."

"Good. There's a sushi place not far from here that's supposed to be good. It's on Colfax. Call in an order and go pick it up. I'll talk to you after I have a shower."

"What's it called?"

"You're the world's greatest detective. You have a smartphone. Figure it out."

Dick felt better and much less snappish after his shower. He took his time but Bruce still wasn't back by the time he padded back out to the living room in his pyjamas. He shrugged, got out plates and utensils and put them on the coffee table, and turned on an audiobook to pass the time and keep himself awake.

Finally Bruce got back, and Dick was still annoyed enough at him to make him serve the sushi, which also took much longer than expected with lots of opening various containers. Just when Dick thought he was going to pass out from hunger, Bruce handed him his plate.

"Try the one at 12 o'clock. I know you like eel."

Dick did as instructed, and it was delicious. It was also definitely sea eel and not fresh water eel. "You didn't get this at the place down the street. It's anago."

"Yes, it is," Bruce said.

"Where did you get this? Colorado is landlocked. The tiny take-out shop in the strip mall isn't going to serve anago."

Bruce shifted audibly in his seat. "I may have gone to Matsuhisa."

"Bruce, seriously. Are you trying to tell me that a Michelin starred restaurant does carry out?"

"They did for me," Bruce said and Dick heard the smirk in his voice. He'd never been able to pick up the subtle changes in Bruce's voice when he made jokes, usually relying on tiny changes in his expressions to tell if Bruce was being serious. Bruce's voice always sounded so emotionless, Batman's even more so (unless is was anger), when he wasn't faking a play-boy persona. Dick was getting better at picking up Bruce's vocal tells that he'd never even noticed before.

Dick shook his head and grinned - of course Bruce couldn't just find the nearest place on his phone and drive three blocks. In the end, the food was just too good to not devote full attention to it. Each piece was perfectly balanced and seasoned, the kind of sushi and sashimi the chef claimed didn't need wasabi or soy sauce. Bruce had also bought soup, salad, and even wagyu beef. They didn't chat except to talk about the food, and for the first time in months Dick felt completely relaxed around Bruce. He didn't feel like Bruce was scrutinizing him to see how he managed and cataloguing every single difference between sighted Dick and blind Dick. Dick wasn't sure if it was because Bruce himself was more comfortable around Dick, or if Dick was more comfortable with himself. Probably both. Aside from Bruce telling him what food was where, the dinner wasn't any different than the countless meals they'd eaten just the two of them. Bruce didn't contribute much to the conversation, and Dick was more than happy to just enjoy the food and the company.

Eventually, of course, the meal had to end. Bruce helped clean up, and Dick wished he had sake to offer. A bit of alcohol might make discussing whatever had brought Bruce out to Denver less painful, but apparently even Bruce's money hadn't been enough to convince the staff at Matsuhisa to risk their liquor license. Dick had only been gone three weeks, and they'd often gone much longer than that in different cities. Dick knew that Bruce must have had some reason - probably an awkward and painful reason - to come.

The companionable quiet started to feel awkward, at least to Dick. But Dick had been talking to fill in Bruce's silences since he was a kid, and while gradually he'd figured out that he didn't always have to talk - that sometimes quiet was good too - he felt the need to fill this one.

"We went skiing in Vail last weekend. I had an amazing time. I think I worried my guide a little - kept wanting to go fast and the instructors weren't expecting quite how fast. I don't know why, because I'd told them I already knew how to ski. But the guide got used to me by the end of the day, and we're definitely going to meet up again before the end of the season."

Bruce grunted.

"Do you still have the place in Aspen?" Dick asked, thinking of the trip he had taken with Jason, back when Jason was still Robin. Then Jason had died, and while Dick had been skiing since, he'd never returned to Aspen.

"I still own it, yes, but I've been renting it out for years." For a split second, Dick thinks that he heard a hint of sadness or regret in Bruce's voice, but then Bruce said, "I make an obscene profit on it. Aspen is ridiculous." Dick heard the grin in Bruce's voice, and another thrill passed through Dick that he was picking up on these clues. It'd taken a while to learn the auditory differences, but it seemed he could still read Bruce better than almost anyone else.

"That's good to know."

"It's too late this year, but maybe next year we can all go. Maybe even for Christmas."

Dick allowed himself to show a sappy grin on his face. He couldn't remember the last time everyone, or even most of them, had gone on vacation together. Back when Dick was Robin, he, Bruce and Alfred had actually gone on vacation at least once a year. Bruce was still dedicated to the mission - to his war - but he could put it down occasionally back then. When had that changed, Dick mused? Jason's death had definitely finalized the change, but Dick felt like the tendency towards single mindedness had started earlier.

"I'd like that, very much," Dick said.

Alfred had said more than once that Dick's presence in the manor saved Bruce; it prevented him from completely losing his identity into Batman's, and Robin brought a necessary lightness. Sometimes, though, Dick thought that his addition to the family hadn't prevented any of that from happening. Just delayed it a little while. For a long time, Dick beat himself up that he hadn't been enough, especially when his relationship with Bruce was at it's worst. Still do, sometimes. Let's be real, Dick thought.

Dick and Bruce sat in companionable silence, until Dick's curiosity got the better of him. "So why did you fly all the way out here? I don't think it was just to terrorize the staff at a five star restaurant."

Dick heard the sound of fine wool blend sliding against the fabric of the couch as Bruce shifted slightly. "I just wanted to make sure that you're doing well here."

Dick waved that aside. "That's bull and you know it. I've been emailing and texting everyone, saying that this is great and was the right decision."

"Hrrnnn."

Dick decided to wait Bruce out, or at least attempt to. Usually that wouldn't work - Bruce was the master at using his own silence to get other people to talk - but in this case, Dick wasn't the one that had flown 2,000 miles to show up uninvited. Dick made himself comfortable.

Dick was checking the time on the watch he got from Damian when Bruce cleared his throat and his clothes rustled as he shifted again. "Dick, do you remember when Bane broke my back?"

"Of course I do. I couldn't forget it."

"I know I haven't talked much about it, but that was a . . . difficult period in my life. Very tough. It's something that I think that we could talk about now, if you would like to."

Dick knew that Bruce was watching him closely, and that Bruce also knew all of his tells. Still, he did his best to repress showing any of his anger. "B, that's a . . . kind offer, but you know it's not the same thing. You got better."

"I realize that; however, had I known in advance that the cost of the healing would be Shondra Kinsolving's mind . . ." Dick heard Bruce shrug and exhale. "Anyway, I'm coming to the conclusion that you are doing the right thing here."

"So does that mean that you're going to stop your work with Cyborg and the others?"

"Not stop entirely, but I've put it on the back burner and told them it's fine if they want to do the same. I know that Dr. Mid-Nite and Cyborg have found something interesting, but it may be years away."

"If it doesn't fizzle out into another false start," Dick said, finding as he said it out loud that the possibility didn't upset him the way it had when he'd gone up to the Watchtower.

"Hrn."

"I know this might hard for you to understand, but the people here don't think that we're broken."

"What do you mean?"

"The teachers and some of the other students don't believe that we need to be fixed, because we're not broken. That we don't need to see, to still live valuable lives. Useful lives."

Bruce hesitated, and Dick couldn't even hear him breathing. After agonizing slow seconds, Bruce asked quietly, "Is that you think is most important? Being useful? Being valuable - to me? To Gotham?"

More seconds dripped by like water drops falling from a barely melting icicle. Dick knew the answer but didn't quite want to admit it. "Yes," he finally said.

"That's not what's most important to me, despite impressions I may have given. I just want you to be happy. Do the teachers here think - do you think - that you can be?"

Dick didn't really believe Bruce, but he barely hesitated this time. "They do . . . and I think I can too."

Bruce exhaled and shifted. "That's all I wanted to hear."

Dick waited a few beats, then ventured, "So does this mean that you're not angry with me any longer?"

"I was never angry with you. Why would you even think that?"

"For getting hurt. It seems like you've lost another soldier, and I've let you down."

Bruce stood up and strode over to Dick, his hands grasping Dick around each arm. "Never."

"I thought . . . I mean, when you said that you aren't focusing on finding a cure anymore, that you've realized that I'm not going to be back in the field any time soon. I must have made a mistake, and this happened, and it's my fault that you're down a good soldier."

"Is that what you've been feeling, this whole time?"

Dick nodded, not trusting his voice.

"It's not your fault." Bruce's fingers tightened on Dick's biceps, as if Bruce could press the truth and intensity of his words into Dick's flesh. "You didn't make a mistake, you didn't do anything wrong, and no one blames you."

Dick trembled, knew that Bruce would be able to feel it, but he couldn't deny the fierce need in Bruce's voice for Dick to believe him. Dick wanted to, so much.

"But, Clayface?"

"Didn't Tim and Damian talk you through it? Make it clear that it was just bad luck? That even after you hit the wall - and we don't know for sure, but possibly you'd already lost your sight - you were key to taking him down?"

"No, I never talked to Tim or Damian. I tried once, with Tim, but it was hard. Too hard, I think, for both of us. I never tried again, but I can't remember. I think, though, that I should have dodged better. Something."

Bruce's hands moved, to holding Dick in a tentative hug with one arm around Dick's shoulder and the other brushing Dick's hair out of his face. "No. No. I've talked to them, I've reviewed the film from surveillance cameras, and it wasn't your fault."

Something broke inside of Dick - a dark, twisted thing. It shriveled and died and Dick hadn't even realized that it was there, but feeling it crumble felt so good. "Oh my God. Thank you."

Bruce's arm tightened around Dick. "Sometimes things just happen, even to the best of us. No one can dodge every hit. No one."

All Dick could do was nod.

"Even if you did do something wrong - which you didn't - the hit against the wall, that particular angle, with that exact damage, was a one in a billion thing. I don't blame you. I'm not mad at you. It's not your fault."

Dick furiously scrubbed at his stinging eyes.

"I have been upset, but because of what you're going through. Not because I've lost a soldier, not because the mission is harder without you - though it is - but only because my son has been . . . struggling."

Bruce squeezed again and then let go, removing all physical touch. "You're going through this, and it's not your fault. It's mine."

Dick chuckled then, bitter and fond at once. "Stop, Bruce. You know it's not always about you."

"That's not what I meant! I just - I mean, if I had never let you be Robin, none of this would have happened."

"You know I was going out on my own, looking for Zucco. You couldn't have stopped me, short of locking me away. I don't blame you for deciding to train me instead of allowing me to try alone."

Bruce grunted then, almost a groan, as if he had dropped a pack full of stones. "You give me too much benefit of the doubt. You always have."

"You don't give yourself enough." Dick reached out to pull Bruce into a hug, not bothering to scrub away the tears again. "I've been angry too, but not at you."

Dick felt one of Bruce's hands reach up to tentatively stroke the back of his head, and he relaxed into Bruce's rock solid shoulder. Dick was pretty sure he heard Bruce sniff too, though that could easily have been his imagination. The awkwardness between the two of them over the last few months lifted, and Dick hadn't realized its weight until he felt the freedom from it.

Perhaps they both laid down some burdens, tonight.

"I'm sorry," Bruce whispered. "So sorry."

"Stop it! I'm still here. I'm going to be fine. Stop the guilt."

"Not exactly my specialty, but I'll try."

Bruce gathered Dick up, as if he was a young boy again, both of them sitting on the floor in what should have felt awkward, but instead felt like coming home.

"We've both been idiots, haven't we? Fighting over nothing? Ignoring each other because we thought we blamed each other," Dick said.

"Like two bald men fighting over a comb."

Dick laughed at the image, then cried, and lost track of time, until he heard the clicks and clanks of metal - someone was picking the door lock. Dick sprang up into a fighting stance. He kept a pair of escrima sticks in a customized pocket in his jacket, and another one under the mattress. Neither pair was accessible right now. He felt Bruce stand protectively between Dick and the front door. Dick could appreciate the tactical soundness of the move even as he loathed the fact that Bruce thought it was necessary. Maybe Dick wasn't up for solo patrol yet - or ever again, maybe - but he could still fight blind, damn it.

The door opened. Dick sensed Bruce relax and stand straight. "Damian!" Bruce snapped.

Dick stepped around Bruce. "What are you doing here, Dami?"

"Father left without telling anyone, and I surmised that he was going to visit you. I didn't know if he would behave himself, and I can see that I was right to come, as clearly you have been weeping."

"It's fine. I'm fine," Dick said.

"You shouldn't have come, Damian."

"I suppose one might say the same thing to me then, Master Bruce," Alfred's crisp voice cut in. "It does indeed look as if Master Richard is upset."

"Alfred!" Bruce said.

"Whatever it looks like, we actually had a good talk. Resolved some things," Dick said. "I'm relieved, is all."

Someone - probably Damian - shut the door with unnecessary force. "Tt. Pennyworth, you may have been correct."

"Of course I was correct. It was, I believe, what one would refer to as a sucker's bet."

"Wait. What did you bet on?" Dick asked.

"Whether or not you two fools would make up with each other without intervention. I now owe Pennyworth."

"You bet against us - that Dick and I wouldn't be able to talk to each other without help." Bruce said. It wasn't a question.

"I believed in Grayson. Not in you, Father. No insult intended, of course. Just what I judged to be an accurate assessment of your social skills and emotional competence. It may make you feel better to realize that my assessment was incorrect."

Not knowing what else to do, Dick started laughing. He laughed so hard he had to sit back down in the chair.

When Dick finally calmed down, wiped the tears away from his cheeks - laughter, relief, exhaustion, who knew at this point - he told Alfred and Damian to make themselves comfortable. "There's plenty of food left from dinner. Eat, and then tell me why all three of you are here."

"I found out that Father had left, bribed the air traffic controller in Bristol Airport to get the Learjet flight plan, found out the plane was headed to Colorado, so I booked the earliest flight for myself. On Father's credit card. First class."

"I realized almost immediately that Master Damian had left, flew out myself, using the other plane, and caught up with the young master just outside this building."

Dick chuckled again. Alfred was a fine pilot in his own right, and the other plane must refer to the Batwing. No wonder Alfred had been able to catch up with Damian, since Damian had been flying commercial.

"Well, since you're all here now, why don't you stay a few days. See the school and talk to the instructors and other students. I think you'll realize that I'm going to be all right." Dick allowed his voice to lighten. "And then go back to Gotham - and stay there. Please."

"I've already had that idea, Grayson. I've already changed Father's hotel booking into a suite."

"How did you know which hotel I'm at?"

"Please. When have you ever stayed in a hotel that was not the Ritz or the Four Seasons? I merely called the one closest to here and told them who I was. Everyone was extremely accommodating once I explained that my father was visiting my big brother and had neglected to bring me along. They were horrified by your thoughtlessness and shall deliver hot chocolate and cookies to the suite as soon as we return."

Even Bruce laughed.

After they consumed the last of the food, Alfred smoothly ushered Damian and Bruce back to their hotel while he stayed. Dick wasn't quite sure how Alfred managed to do that and make it seem like it was Bruce's idea. No one was as slick as Alfred when he wanted to be. Despite the butler's choreography though, Damian rushed back to Dick at the last second and hugged him so fiercely it was almost an act of aggression.

"What's up, Little D?"

"I'm glad I was able to check on you. You look better. So much better, even with the red, puffy eyes."

Dick chuckled ruefully. "A rather backhanded compliment, but I'll take it. I'm glad you guys are staying a few more days."

Damian nodded, his head still pressed against Dick's torso, so Dick felt it.

Dick lowered his voice. "I'm glad you came, even if Old Dark and Broody and I didn't need your intervention in the end."

"I heard that," Bruce rumbled.

"I meant you to," Dick smirked.

"I'm glad I came too," Damian whispered. "Even if you didn't need it, I think I did." And with that unusual admission of feeling, Damian hurried out the door.

Alfred bustled around the kitchen, whistling "Colonel Bogey" as he cleaned the countertops, started water boiling for tea, and threw away trash. When those familiar sounds faded, Dick said, "Why don't you come sit next to me and talk? You didn't stay behind to clean up take-away."

"Perhaps I could unload your dishwasher for you, Master Dick."

"Thanks for the offer, Alfie, but it'll be easier for me if I do it myself. I need to know where things go."

"Quite right, of course you do. Pardon me," Alfred murmured as he handed Dick a cup of tea. Dick heard a small clink as Alfred sat down his own cup, then joined Dick on the couch.

Dick searched around for an easy subject change. "Why do you whistle that song? I only know it from the movie, Bridge On the River Kwai."

"What the doctor says at the end - it resonates with me, I'll admit." Alfred cleared his throat and his voice brightened. "It does have quite the jaunty piccolo line, as well."

"The doctor can't do anything to help, right? So he watches all the carnage and just says it was all madness."

"Yes. Madness, indeed." Alfred sipped more tea. "'Colonel Bogey' is a World War II song, of course; however, it was also something we sung during the Falklands War."

"You were there?" Alfred rarely even mentioned his service with the British Army, and actual stories from that time were even more scarce.

"Indeed I was, Master Richard, as a field medic, amongst other things."

"If I remember my history, it had a high number of casualties for a ten week conflict, relative to the size of the deployed forces."

"It did. I saw so many injured soldiers. Some I patched up and sent back to the battlefield, others I saved long enough for them to be transported to hospital. I often wondered how they got on, afterward, what lingering war wounds they may have had. I never got to find out how they lived the rest of their lives, after I stitched and bandaged and sent them on their way."

"I know you did the best you could."

"We've learned so much more about trauma surgery, since then. The field of medicine has advanced. I have learned, especially. Years of hands-on experience with you lot." Alfred's voice trailed off, then he took a fortifying sip of tea and sat his cup down with a decisive clink.

Dick thought about smoothing the moment over, but Alfred said brightly, "You seem to be very well settled here. How are you dealing with the cold climate?"

Dick laughed. "So far, it's been warmer than Gotham, and at least the snow actually melts in between storms."

"Glad to hear it." Alfred gave Dick's hand two brisk pats.

"Did my apartment pass inspection, Alfred? Don't even try to deny that you've been snooping."

"You'll forgive an old man for checking up on his grandson." Dick heard the fondness in his voice.

"Is that why you stayed?"

"I have every faith in your ability to live independently, Master Dick. I sent your father and brother ahead because I have been remiss in my duties and responsibilities towards you."

"No, don't say that. It's not even close to true. You scheduled all of the therapy sessions when I was at the Manor, and helped me plan to move out here without telling Bruce. You drove me to how many doctors' appointments? You took notes for me, and asked questions that I hadn't even thought of. You took care of me. You always make sure I have what I need."

"My efforts were lacking in tending towards your emotional needs - your state of mind - and I wish to rectify that somewhat tonight, if you will allow."

"There's really no need, Alfie. You did great."

"Perhaps I was little more than a field medic once again, attending to the physical, but not addressing the other wounds."

Dick made a noise of protest, but Alfred continued on.

"I need to make sure that you understand that I believe, to the utmost, that anything you want to do is still achievable. We may need to make modifications, be creative, maybe come up with some technological adaptations, but whatever you want to do, you can figure out how. I'll help you. Everyone will."

"Are you implying that I could - that I should - go back to my night job?"

"That is something that I think you need to decide if you want, or even if it's the best place for your many skills and gifts. Dear Miss Gordon has said that she helps more people as Oracle than she ever did as a street level operative."

Dick nodded. He didn't think that he could ever match Babs' brilliance in the Oracle role, but perhaps there were other possibilities for him.

"You have my support, my dear boy. You always will, whatever future you decide to carve for yourself. I will make sure that you continue to have what you need, even if Master Bruce doesn't agree."

Dick knew the weight of that statement from Alfred. He might disagree with Bruce, sometimes vehemently, and had even quit Bruce's service, but usually deferred to Bruce's decisions. "Thanks, Alfie."

"It'd be easy for me to cook and clean for you, as I have done for your father the entirety of his life, but perhaps that is not what you most need. I do those chores for Master Bruce so that he can pour all of his brilliance, time, and energy into being Batman, and being the best father he can be to you lot."

Dick chuckled.

Alfred continued, "I think perhaps for you, what you need most is the chance to find your own way. I will do anything in my power to assure you that have that chance. I want to do more than just patch you up and send you back out to the battlefield. I want you to be able to make your own choice, and I want to be able to watch you fly."

Dick grabbed Alfred's wrist, dry skin and sinews strong as steel. "Alfred, I don't think it's madness, you know. Bruce's mission. What you do to support that. You're not the doctor in the movie." Dick gave a gentle squeeze and released, knowing that was enough vulnerability and emotion for the Englishman with the stiff upper lip. He deliberately make his voice light and joking when he said, "We're all lucky to have you."

Alfred snorted. "Bloody lucky, I should say."

"Agreed."

Yet another reason moving to Denver had been a good idea. For whatever reason, moving 2,000 miles away made some of the most reserved members of the family actually talk to him.


	18. Milton's Last Rose, Unseen

Bruce got his way, again. Dick didn't buy his protests that the builders were just running behind schedule and that the penthouse just needed one more week. Especially since he hadn't even asked for any work to be done. But Bruce insisted that all of the appliances needed to be replaced, new flooring installed, even the walls repainted. (Really, Bruce?) Dick knew that the renovation was partially a front for upgrading the security systems and probably installing hidden cameras and listening devices too. Well, Dick had his ways of finding those, and he was reasonably sure that Barbara and Tim would make sure that Bruce wouldn't have too much access to the security system.

Really, though, Dick was happy to spend some time in the Manor before moving into the penthouse. He'd missed everyone. The temporary move to Denver had been a great decision, but Dick was ready to come home. Maybe a week would be a good bridge between his time at the school and moving into his new home. Old life, meet new life.

Things were goings well overall. Colorado had been great - skiing, rock climbing, hiking. He went to a football game. It was as close to living a normal, civilian life as Dick had ever gotten - including his time at the circus. Despite the full schedule of classes at the center, excursions, and therapy for the other effects of the brain injury, Dick had more regular and consistent sleep than he'd had since he was a pre-teen. He didn't need it more than he used to, but that didn't mean that he didn't appreciate it. He'd been worried that he'd be bored, the way that he used to be when he'd been benched due to injury, to the point where he'd been climbing the walls - sometimes literally - and driving his friends and family crazy. Perhaps because he'd still been exercising regularly, sometimes twice a day, that hadn't happened.

Happy? Not yet, maybe, but it felt tangible. Like a real goal instead of a soap bubble dream.

That didn't mean that there weren't stumbling blocks. Decisions that needed to be made, even though having to make them frankly sucked. Deciding to donate his cars and motorcycles to charity had been one of them. Sure, there were ways to do just about everything he wanted to, sky-diving, horseback riding, sparring, gymnastics - but driving wasn't one of them. Jason had been using his Nightwing vehicles since the incident, but when he got back from Denver, Dick made sure to officially give them to his brother.

As tough as letting go of his vehicles had been, decisions about his future were even more difficult. Dick spent time thinking about what he wanted to do, what would be interesting, what would be useful. He remembered what Bruce said to him back in Denver, but Dick knew that he had to do something. Bruce just wanted him to be happy, but Dick didn't think happiness would be possible if he wasn't working or doing something.

While he hadn't moved into the penthouse yet, Dick wanted to get re-acquainted with the neighborhood. He'd become skilled at getting around alone over the past few months, but Denver was not Gotham. Even during the day, in a nice area, walking solo in Gotham required a different level of competence. Dick knew that anyone foolish enough to make assumptions about his vulnerability based on the white cane would be unpleasantly surprised. Still, he'd rather not have a fight on his first day out in Gotham. Today, Dick planned to walk six blocks from the Wayne Foundation Building to a small diner, eat a meal on the premises, then return.

He knew the route well, both from his previous time living in the penthouse of the building and from studying a tactile map. He had several road crossings to navigate, but only one major intersection of two main roads. Dick had no trouble with any of the crossings, and made it to the diner in good time.

He approached the cashier, who was smacking and cracking her gum loudly enough that Dick could have used that sound alone to navigate. He flashed a smile he knew was easygoing yet charming, and said, "Table for one?"

The gum smacked a couple more times. "Just you?" an uninterested but not rude voice asked. While two words were inconclusive, she sounded like a Gotham native.

"Yes, just me," he replied smoothly, not letting his smile falter. "Though I'd appreciate a booth in the corner, out of the way, if possible." He felt most comfortable with his back against a wall or two, especially when alone. Losing his sight had only reinforced that habit, ingrained at an early age. Going out with other bats was always interesting. Bruce picked his seat, and the others arranged themselves as they pleased with subtle negotiations and sometimes outright nonverbal intimidation.

"Alright, just follow me, please."

He followed the gum snaps down an aisle, between a row of what he guessed to be booths on one side and tables on the other. The booths had a raised edge which the tip of his cane tapped with every other step, making keeping straight easy.

"Right here, sir," the hostess said (or maybe his server - this was the kind of place where they might do both; she hadn't introduced herself and it annoyed Dick to no end when people did that). Dick slid gracefully into his seat. Windows behind him and to his right, judging by the slight brightness he saw. Not that he could see much light on a typically gray Gotham day like today.

A quick, slight puff of air across his face and the sound of laminated card stock - Gum Snapper was trying to hand him the menu, not that it would do Dick any good. It wasn't an issue - Dick had looked up the menu online before venturing out. "No thanks, I know what I want."

"You ready to order then?"

Dick turned back to her, making sure to angle his head just right as if he was making eye contact, and gave a small smile. "Yes, I am. Should I order with you or someone else?"

This seemed to jolt her into realizing she'd been running on autopilot. "Um, yeah, sorry hun. My name is Candace and I'll be your server today. Can I start you off with coffee or soda?"

"Coffee please, and I'll have the veggie omelette with hashbrowns and bacon, please."

"Sure thing, sweetie. I'll be right back with your coffee."

Dick positioned the cane out of the way on his right side, and amused himself with trying to discern how many other diners and workers were here. He figured that the restaurant was about a third full; not bad for the middle of the morning on a weekday. Hopefully that meant that the food was as tasty now as it had been the one time he'd eaten here before.

He casually eavesdropped on a couple of nearby tables. There was a family with little kids across the aisle and a few tables down, tourists from their chatter. Two retirees sat a bit closer, complaining about how a police roadblock a few days ago had disrupted traffic. Dick grimaced in sympathy. Typical Gotham. Not that he could share the details with the others, but Dick knew that the Riddler had been the cause of that particular situation. He kept listening until his coffee came. After doctoring it up to his satisfaction, Dick admitted to himself that he was kind of bored. He went back to listening to the people around him, hoping that his food would come soon.

Dick heard a slight hesitation in the conversation of the family, as if they had been briefly distracted by something. He listened for footsteps but couldn't hear anything. Gum Snapper - Candace - was nowhere nearby. Then the retirees paused in their conversation, and one of them set her coffee cup down with a heavy clatter. Her hands were shaking, but they hadn't been earlier.

Dick listened carefully, and his hand flew up to grab a wrist before someone could touch his shoulder. The very large wrist belonged to a big man, possibly bigger than Bruce. Thick and strong - Dick's fingers couldn't wrap all of the way around. Hairy. Slight acrid smell of gunpowder and smoke - mercury and sulphur. The calculations ran through Dick's head in a split second, and he thought of all the people who could almost sneak up on him, who'd try to grab him without warning, who'd even want to when he was out of costume.

"Slade." Dick released Slade's wrist and gestured at the seat across from him the booth. "Sit down." While Dick knew that if Slade's hand had actually reached his shoulder, Slade would have squeezed painfully, Slade would not outright attack him in public, feet away from a family with young kids, unless Dick attacked first. While Dick might have to take precautions on his walk back to Wayne Tower, for now he was safe.

He heard the slide of fabric across vinyl and felt the subtle flex of the table as the large man sat down.

Slade gave a low rumble, half rueful chuckle and half growl. "So it's true, then."

Dick resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in irritation. Slade finding and confronting him just days after his return to Gotham could not be a coincidence. Dick wondered how long Slade had been having him trailed. How had Bruce not noticed? Perhaps he'd just not thought to mention it to Dick? Of course, if Slade had been doing the trailing himself, that might explain why they didn't know. Slade was good, Dick could acknowledge that.

"You obviously knew that it was true already, Slade." Dick gestured to his white cane with his chin. "Why are you here?"

"Sometimes seeing is believing." Dick heard the wry tone in Slade's voice, and he could picture the sardonic quirk of Slade's mouth, the gleam of controlled threat in his eye.

"Cute. Really witty there." Dick took a sip of his coffee in feigned indifference.

"Maybe I just wanted to catch up. I missed your little quips." Dick heard a rustle of fabric as Slade moved, and Dick imagined him spreading his hands in faux innocence.

"Glad to hear that my banter is appreciated by others. It's always nice to know that my efforts don't go unnoticed. Now, how long have you been lurking around?"

"I heard that this place makes a mean cup of coffee, so I thought I'd check it out. Imagine my surprise when I saw you here." Slade's voice was edged with humor, dangerous and sharp.

"I'm sure you were completely shocked, and that this meeting was entirely random and unplanned," Dick replied with heavy sarcasm. "So how long have you been in Gotham?"

"Just a couple of days. You might have heard about the incident at Mortimer and 6th Avenue?"

Dick nodded. That was the cause of the police blockade the people at the other table had been complaining about, but no one had told Dick that Deathstroke had been involved. Dick suppressed a flash of irritation. Either Batman and the rest hadn't known that, or they were trying to 'protect' Dick by keeping details from him. While it was plausible that Batman hadn't realized Deathstroke's connection, Dick would bet a hundred bucks that Bruce thought he was sparing Dick from worry.

"It's not like you to get involved with the Gotham crowd," Dick observed mildly, keeping his anger at Bruce concealed. He kept both of his hands on the table.

"True, but out of the lot of them, Nigma isn't at all bad to work with. To be honest, I've been hoping for an excuse to come to this wretched city for a while now, so I took the first reasonable opportunity that I came across."

"Ah, to check up on little old me? You shouldn't have. You really shouldn't have."

Before Slade could respond, Dick heard Candace approach. Slade exhaled quietly and shifted. Dick knew that he was putting on his friendly civilian face.

"Here's your omelette, sweetheart," the waitress said. "Careful, the plate's hot."

"Thank you," Dick murmured.

"Sir, can I get you anything?" Candace asked Slade.

"Just a cup of coffee. Sorry I just sat myself, but I just happened to see my friend here through the window," Slade said, smooth and barely flirtatious.

"Oh, no problem, darling," Candace simpered, and Dick thought she sounded downright giddy. He frowned.

They waited in silence while Dick picked at his food, though he couldn't really enjoy it. He was too conscious of Slade observing him, noticing any slight hesitation, judging. The way that he used to feel around Bruce, initially.

After Candace dropped off the coffee for Slade, he remarked, "You realize that I have one more functioning eye than you do now, right?"

"So you've just come to gloat, then." Dick put down his knife and fork, hands on the table, where Slade could see them. He doubted Slade truly saw him as a threat at the moment, but there was no sense in provoking him. It took every ounce of Dick's self control to keep his hands relaxed and loose.

Slade sighed then, and it sounded almost . . . sad. "No, kid, I haven't. I knew what people were saying, of course I did, but I hoped it was a lie or a cover or . . . something."

"Why would I lie about this?" Dick asked in a low voice, fingers twitching towards his knife and then calming them through sheer force of will. It's not that he wanted to fight Slade, not here, not now, but too many previous conflicts with the man had Dick yearning for a weapon, just to hold.

In an even more quiet voice, Slade replied. "No one believes the horseriding accident bullshit. What really happened?"

"I really did fall off a horse."

Slade huffed out a small laugh. "Stick to your silly cover story if you want to, then, but anybody who really knows you isn't buying it." Slade's meaning was plain - anybody who knew Richard Grayson was Nightwing would never believe the horse story.

Luckily Slade was one of the few villains who knew that Dick was Nightwing, and Slade's own complicated but strict moral code prevented him from revealing it. Dick shrugged. "Who are you talking about specifically, since the accident and its consequences has been pretty widely reported on?" Might as well push Slade a little.

"The word amongst my . . . business associates is that Nightwing is AWOL. Rumor is that he's out of the game, maybe even dead."

Dick could still do his own version of the Batglare pretty effectively, as confirmed by his siblings. Even Damian had declared it acceptable. He did it now to Slade. "Nightwing was in the news just the other day - big drug trafficking bust. Worked with Red Robin."

Slade spoke softly enough that no one else could overhear. "This new Nightwing isn't an ounce under 220 and hits like a sledgehammer. He's still pretty acrobatic, but doesn't move quite the same way."

"Maybe Nightwing just changed up his workout routine. Maybe he just stopped neglecting leg day," Dick replied with some irritation. "I'm not sure why you're interested, anyway."

"Christ, kid, you're not making this any easier for me."

"How exactly have I given you any indication that I care in the slightest about making this _easier_ for _you?_ " Dick hissed. God, Slade was getting on his nerves. His shoulders stiffened and his jaw clenched. He'd always struggled to keep his temper reined in, even before hitting the wall courtesy of Clayface, but now the control was even more tenuous.

"I came to say I'm sorry. I was sorry to hear the news, and sorry to have it confirmed. You were a respected foe, and not completely without merit. I'll miss our confrontations."

Slade's pity pushed Dick over the edge. "Who said they were over?" Dick snarled and punched him before he'd even consciously realized that he'd made a fist.

Dick's blow caught Slade off-guard, hit him hard in the jaw. _Can't lose contact with him_. Dick grabbed Slade's shirt and pulled.

"Grayson, I didn't come here for this," Slade growled. He gripped Dick's wrists to pry him off. Dick slammed his forehead into Slade's nose, which made a satisfying crack. With Slade's healing factor, it wouldn't slow him down, but Dick felt him stagger.

Slade's greater mass bore Dick down to the floor. Dick twisted desperately. _Can't afford to get whacked on the head_. Dick hissed in pain, landing on his shoulder and hip. Slade's inexorable weight on top forced Dick the rest of the way down. _Flat on my back - not good._

Dick grabbed Slade's ear and yanked hard

"Dirty trick, Grayson."

"Don't care."

His heart thumped in his chest and everything slowed, each move and countermove palpable. The possibilities branched and forked. Dick felt more lucid than he had in months, adrenaline whooshing out the cobwebs. Heart bashed his sternum. _Alive._

Shouting voices, rushing feet, but he ignored them. Focus narrowed to just Slade.

Slade cursed and Dick bared his teeth. Dick used his leverage on Slade's ear to tug the other him away, enough to Dick to crack his elbow across Slade's face. _This shouldn't be so easy._ Slade was holding back. Dick's adrenaline turned to thermogenic rage. He didn't want pity. Didn't need accomodation. Not in this, anyway.

Dick had to get off of his back. He bridged up with his torso, forcing Slade up. Without warning, he dropped back down. That instant created space between their chests. Dick snaked his arm into that closing gap, punching his arm through. He followed with the rest of his body, throwing his hips to leverage himself onto his front. His legs bumped against something. Dishes clattered.

Someone - Candace? - shouted, "Stop! Stop it, now!"

Dick didn't stop. Slade was still on top of him, driving him into the floor. Slade was perpendicular to Dick. Slade's torso tense, muscle like granite. Dick felt squished. _Not for long._ He levered himself up onto all fours.

The fact that he couldn't see didn't matter, not with the close contact. He knew exactly where Slade was, the position of every limb. Slade resisted. _Slade's still not going full out._ Dick's anger roared like a dragon.

He grabbed Slade's wrist, digging into a pressure point hard enough that Slade flinched. Tiny, probably not visible to even an attentive bystander, but Dick felt it under his hands. He moved his fingers into an aikido hold, bent Slade's wrist. Flipped Slade onto his back. Dick pinned with his knees, twisting Slade's arm. The merc would have to break his own arm to escape the hold.

In an instant, the resistance slid out of Slade's body. Dick gripped harder, pulse galloping. _Don't stop._ Slade stopped fighting. Dick should release Slade's wrist. He couldn't. Drumming in his ears.

"Kid, hey kid," Slade's bass voice slowly cut through Dick's haze. " _Grayson._ "

Dick tried to gather his control back. It was like trying to hold the leashes of a dozen dogs. Every muscle coiled. Incessant beating heart. Heat on his face and red behind his eyelids. Slade's body relaxed and puddled underneath.

"It's over. They've called the cops," Slade said.

And that is how Dick's first solo outing in Gotham ended - with a free ride in a cop car to the police station.

Bruce's cellphone vibrated in his pocket, but he ignored it. This pet R&D project of Tim's was going to send Bruce to an early grave. _Or send me back to college,_ Bruce thought to himself, as he opened up a research article that he needed to read before making sense of aspects of Tim's proposal. Well, not exactly, Bruce had a good basic grasp already, but he needed more detailed information.

Halfway through the article, Bruce's desk phone rang. He sighed, glanced at the number - Gotham, but not one he recognized - and hit the button to send it to voicemail. Not many people knew his direct line number, but Bruce felt pretty confident that he knew all of the phone numbers of the people who did. Probably a misdial. Bruce returned his attention to his article, locating the paragraph he'd been interrupted on and re-reading it.

He registered the familiar sound of Cynthia, his long-time and fairly trusted assistant, knocking on the door. He trusted her 100% in anything to do with Wayne Enterprises. "Enter," he called.

"Sorry to disturb you, Bruce, but Commissioner Gordon is on the phone for you. Line two."

"Thanks, Cynthia," he said and picked up the phone. "Jim, hi. What can I do for you?"

"Bruce, sorry to have to get you through your secretary, but I couldn't reach you on your direct line."

"That was you, just a minute ago. I didn't recognise the number - you're not calling from the precinct."

"New cell, and it's not exactly police business," Gordon said. He sounded awkward, hesitant, though only someone who had known him as long as Bruce had would pick it up. Gordon sighed, and continued, "It's not exactly _not_ police business either, though. I thought I would give you a personal heads up."

Bruce's Bat-communicator buzzed in the short-short-long-short rhythm that meant Oracle was trying to contact him. Urgent but not emergency. He remembered the call on his personal cell, that he hadn't even looked at to see who had been calling. Another man would have groaned and poured himself a Scotch.

"Explain," Bruce said to Gordon.

"We have one of your boys here. Got himself arrested for fighting."

"Which one?"

The first thought Bruce had was Jason, which wasn't fair at all. Jason had actually fought less than Dick had when he lived with Bruce, and rarely got in trouble at school. Not to mention the fact that Jason Todd was still legally dead. Gordon wouldn't be calling Bruce about the Red Hood. Damian was Bruce's next suspect. Even Tim. The last name Bruce expected to hear was "Dick."

"Dick?" Bruce couldn't quite keep the incredulity out of his voice.

"Yes, I know it's hard to believe, given his - current condition, but my officers responded to an altercation at a diner."

"Is he hurt?" Bruce asked, and he hated the urgency in his voice, something uncomfortable pricking up his spine.

"No, not really, which is impressive, considering the other guy. Older, but huge. Ex-military, maybe."

"What is his name?" Bruce demanded.

"No one I know. Said his name was Stephen Green."

Bruce recognized the alias. _Wilson._ Bruce had never been as convinced as Dick of Wilson's status as a mercenary with a code of honor.

Bruce must have made some kind of noise, because Gordon was apologizing. "Sorry you had to hear it like this, Bruce, but Dick said he tried to call you and you didn't answer. He called Alfred instead, so I thought I'd give you a call before your butler does."

"A much appreciated heads-up." Bruce remembered to layer back on his social niceties. "I'll be right there. Thank you for calling, Jim."

Bruce carefully put the phone down, but then squeezed it so hard that the plastic cracked. It might be time for Wilson to have a cozy little midnight chat with the Bat.

* * *

The title is a paraphrase of a line from Jorge Luis Borges poem, "A Rose and Milton." For part of their lives, both Borges and John Milton were blind.

We are approaching the end of the story. There will be several more chapters, but I sense the finale. If there's anything you really want to read or questions you want answered, let me know in the comments! I can't promise that I'll cover everything, but I'd love to know what you all think.

Thanks for all of the follows and favorites so far. They truly are appreciated.


	19. The Infinite Babble

The door clanged shut behind Dick as he followed a few steps behind Slade as they entered the holding cell. Dick forced himself to keep his hands hanging loosely at his sides, and not to cross them defensively across his chest. The thing he most wanted to do was put his back into a corner, but he knew that he couldn't afford to appear weak. Weaker than he already appeared, anyway.

Dick had seen this particular precinct's jail cells before, plenty of times, from the other side - but this was his first time on the wrong side of the bars. Besides Slade, there were at least a few other men inside the cell. Dick pictured what he could remember of the holding cell from the last time he'd seen it - well over a year ago now, when Nightwing had escorted a couple of Scarecrow's goons and participated in their interrogation with Commissioner Gordon. Despite spending the last six months learning to adapt, to move forward and come to terms with everything _,_ (and he really thought that he had), this situation, blind and stuck in a holding cell with Deathstroke, surrounded by guys he very possibly had apprehended in the past, he couldn't help but feel frustration and a flash of bitter anger.

Slade turned to face Dick and leaned slightly closer as he said in a low tone, "Two racks of chairs, room about 20 by 30, four other guys, all seated, three doors on the left."

Dick nodded in amaroidal appreciation. He needed some assistance, especially if he didn't want to reveal his vision loss to the other occupants, but he didn't have to like it; to have that help come from Slade of all people was like too much angostura with a gin martini. Still, Slade's information was more than enough to fill in the blanks from his memory, and knowing that there were four other men in the room helped him pinpoint exactly where they were by their soft sounds. He recalled two rows of molded plastic chairs, each row fixed to a metal bench that was then bolted to the floor.

The officers hadn't let Dick keep his cane, not that he'd been expecting them to. They did say that they would put him in a private holding cell when one opened up. The private cells were used for detainees who were unusually violent, combative, or needed mental health screening. Dick was not surprised that they were all full, even before noon on a weekday. It was Gotham, after all. Dick knew why he was offered a private room - his blindness might make him a target, and while the holding cell was observed 24/7 it would take time to enter and break up a fight - but he didn't want any special treatment.

So now Dick was back to wanting to wrap himself up in his own arms and retreat into a corner. If any of these men figured out who he is - _Bruce Wayne's heir -_ or who he was - _cop from Bludhaven -_ then he'd be in a potentially dangerous, at the minimum very awkward situation. Dick wasn't even worried about not being able to see - if he could hold his own against Deathstroke, even if Slade wasn't going all out - then he was sure he'd be able to defend himself and then some from whoever was also in the holding cell. The worry was being able to defend himself without looking suspiciously kick-ass while everything got recorded on CCTV.

Perhaps sensing his hesitation, Slade once again offered Dick another lifeline. "Four open seats, ten feet ahead at 2 o'clock."

Feeling grateful to a man who had insulted him less than an hour ago sucked. Even though Slade probably hadn't meant it that way, the implication that Dick was now permanently benched had stung. Even if that was what Dick himself was slowly coming to accept, to have it tossed out casually over bacon and eggs - like it was a foregone conclusion - had infuriated Dick. And now the guy whose nose Dick had just broken (never mind that it had already healed thanks to Slade's enhancements) was helping him while they were both in jail for fighting each other was just a touch too ironic for Dick's sensibilities. And not the Alanis Morissette kind of irony. The real kind. The only thing ironic about that song was that none of its examples were actually ironic.

Slade cleared his throat, and Dick realized that he'd been dangerously lost in thought. He heard Slade turn again and take slow, measured steps towards the bench. Years of working both with and against the man made his posture, his swagger, his confidence oozing out of every step, easy to picture. The seats groaned in protest when Slade sat down, a couple of chairs over from the nearest end of the row if Dick's mental map was correct.

Keeping his hands calm at his sides, spine straight, chin up, Dick walked to the closest chair and sat down. Two of the other men were having a whispered conversation, just a touch too soft for Dick to pick up more than a scattered word or two. Another man seemed to be dozing from the rough almost-snore pattern to his breathing. The fourth man was the one that Dick felt was the most likely threat - he didn't need Slade to tell him that this man was staring at both of the new arrivals.

Perhaps noticing Dick's unease, Slade rumbled, "Christ, relax, kid," from a couple of seats to Dick's left, not loud but also not making any efforts not to be overheard either.

"Not that easy."

With wry sarcasm, Slade quoted, "You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy . . . We must be cautious."

Against his will, Dick felt himself relaxing slightly at the _Star Wars_ quote.

"So, kid, what happens next?"

"They can hold us for up to twenty-four hours before pressing charges or not," Dick said at the same volume.

"I'm not going to press charges," Slade said with a snort.

Dick rolled his eyes. "I know that, but you're not the only one who gets a say. How many other people were in that diner?"

Slade shifted. "Even in your current situation, you should know that."

"I do know that." Dick's tone of voice was scathing. "It was rhetorical. Just making a point about multiple witnesses."

A quick breath huffed from Slade could have either been a snort of frustration or a stifled chuckle. "Sorry."

He didn't sound sorry. He sounded quietly amused.

"Saying shit like that is why I punched you in the first place," Dick said and finally gave in to the urge to cross his arms that he'd been fighting since first stepping foot in the holding cell.

Another brief exhalation, and Dick could just picture the smirk on Slade's face. But the following "Sorry, kid," did sound more genuine at least.

Dick decided to take that as the olive branch it was and changed the subject. "Did you call anyone?"

"Just Wintergreen. If Rose ever hears about this . . . You?"

Dick smiled and tucked that little tidbit away for future use. "B, on two different numbers, but he didn't answer. Finally had to leave a message on the house landline."

"You still have one of those?"

"You've met Al . . . er, my butler. He's a bit of a traditionalist and no one wants to argue with him about it."

"I can understand that. Throws a mean punch." Dick heard the sound of skin rubbing skin and thought that Slade was probably ruefully rubbing his jaw where Alfred had once so memorably hit.

"I imagine someone from my family is going to show up soon. If I'm really unlucky, more than one. And a lawyer," Dick sighed. Getting into a fight in a diner was hardly his finest moment, and the loss of impulse control from his brain injury could only excuse so much. He was not looking forward to whatever Bruce would have to say.

"Well, that's fan-fucking-tastic," Slade drawled. "I always love spending time with your family."

"Just wait. I bet someone will be here within the hour."

No one bothered Slade and Dick, and Dick could only attribute that to the rather imposing physical presence Slade projected. If any of the other detainees had noticed anything off about Dick, no one said anything while Dick was so obviously with the mercenary. Yet another thing to be grateful to Slade for, whether or not Dick had asked for it, something Slade was undoubtedly very smug about. Sometimes Slade really did deserve to be punched.

Dick's prediction that some combination of Bruce, Tim, Alfred and a lawyer would show up proved incorrect. In fact, out of all of his family members arriving, the last person he expected showed up in the most unexpected manner.

Slade and Dick had been in the holding cell for about an hour and a half - Dick's watch had been removed but his internal clock was fairly accurate - when he heard loud sounds of metal against metal, a jingle of keys, and bolts being thrown in a massive lock. The atmosphere tensed as everyone paused whatever they were doing to see the newcomer.

"Who is it?" Dick asked, hopeful that perhaps a bailiff was coming to get him out.

"Relax, kid. Just another prisoner," Slade said.

After the door swung closed again, in a voice with a touch of rasp and Gotham accent that Dick would recognize anywhere, the newcomer asked, "Who's the black sheep of the family now?"

"Jason. Oh my God." Dick wasn't sure if he should feel relieved to have his little brother here or exasperated. Because this was definitely not a coincidence. Jason hadn't been arrested when he was putting heads in duffel bags and running a major crime organization, so the odds of him being arrested in the middle of the day and just happening to be booked into the same precinct that Dick was in would be vanishingly small. Jason must have done something deliberately to get himself here.

Jason strode over. "Move your butt." Slade slid down one seat, Dick did the same, and Jason took a seat next to Dick. "I thought you'd be happy to have me here," he said with a grin in his voice.

"I am," Dick admitted. Sitting between Slade and Jason was safe. Well, at least they wouldn't let anyone else hit Dick. If anyone was going to punch Dick, it would be them.

"Golden Boy got arrested. For brawling." Jason could sound just as smug as Slade, Dick reflected. "How easily the halo tarnishes."

Dick had to laugh at that. "I got arrested, but so did you. And you actually got yourself arrested on purpose, just because I did. Pretty sure I am still coming out ahead."

Jason sighed and bumped Dick lightly shoulder to shoulder. "When I told you to relax, enjoy yourself, let your hair down, _this_ is not exactly what I had in mind."

Dick shrugged. "Maybe I just miss police stations." He spoke in a low voice, hoping not to be overheard, but feeling safe enough between the other two to risk making the joke that alluded to his previous job.

Jason grumbled. "Just because you used to be a cop doesn't mean that you need to end up on this side of the bars. Any number of careers would let you hang out in police stations." Jason seemed to have no concerns at all about publicly acknowledging that he was buddies with a former officer.

"So what did you do to get yourself thrown in here?" Slade said.

Jason chuckled. "Tried to jack the commish's tires when I heard that my older brother got himself arrested."

"Don't you think that's taking sibling rivalry a bit far?" Slade said.

"Anything he can do, I can do better."

"Yeah you wish," Dick said. "So what's the real reason?"

"Just wanted to look after my big bro. I wasn't sure if you and Slade would still be fighting."

Dick stiffened. "You better not be here because of -"

Jason cut him off before he could finish. "Nothing to do with that. I know you can take care of yourself. But I'm never sure about the weird frenemy thing you two have going on, and I wanted to be here to guard your back. Especially since Bruce seems to be letting you stew for a while."

"How mad is he?"

"Well, first he was really mad at Slade here, then he found out that you threw the first punch, so now he's more angry at you."

"Great."

"I doubt he's forgiven me entirely though," Slade grumbled, but didn't sound too perturbed.

Jason snorted in amusement. "I got the feeling from Tim that he's not going to bail you out, so unless the D.A. decides to not press charges, you'll be here until you get someone else to come bail you out."

"You realize that _you_ could have just bailed me out instead of getting yourself arrested?"

"I'm not spending my money on you!" Jason laughed. "I might not get it back; I think you're a flight risk."

"Hardly," Dick said. "You used to be so generous."

"Whoever says crime doesn't pay is lying. Not exactly rolling in the dough since I went straight."

Dick cleared his throat. "Straight-ish."

Slade turned a sudden bark of laughter into a cough.

"Got something to add, old man?" Jason said.

"Maybe we should change the subject?" Slade ventured gruffly.

"Sounds good. How about you explain to me why you decided to fight my brother who has _brain damage?_ "

"You said it yourself - he threw the first punch." Dick heard Slade shift. "And what do you mean, brain damage?"

"What did you think? That the only thing that got damaged when he hit the brick wall -"

"Rock," Dick interjected to attempt to keep the story straight, but Jason kept on talking as if Dick hadn't said anything at all.

"- was his occipital lobe? The area of the brain that handles visual processing? Well, genius, think again. Any blow that jumbles one area of the brain that hard is gonna affect other areas too. Like scrambled eggs."

"I'm still here," Dick protested mildly. He was actually enjoying listening to Jason's rant, but he couldn't let too much of that enjoyment show.

"Quiet, I'm on a roll. It's not like he just got a little concussion. There are still long term changes."

"Such as?" Slade asked.

"Temper, for one. Easily angered, easily provoked, more aggressive and volatile than before. Irritable. Poor impulse control and lowered inhibitions."

"You make me sound like such a joy to be around."

"Shut up, it'll probably mean that you'll walk from beating up an old guy in a restaurant. You're actually pretty much the same as before, most of the time, but can you honestly tell me that you would have hit Slade in front of civilians - kids - out of uniform before?"

Dick shrugged. Jason had a point, but the changes to Dick's personality and cognitive abilities were sometimes harder to deal with than the vision loss.

"Sorry, kid, I had no idea," Slade said quietly.

"Did you even try to find out?" Jason snapped.

Slade hesitated for a moment, as good as an admission.

"It was going okay until he provoked me," Dick said.

"What did I do?" Slade asked in a belligerent tone.

Jason answered, "Normally I'd probably say just showing up with your stupid face, but he's blind, so it must have been something you said, brainiac."

"I was trying to be nice."

"You implied that I wouldn't be able to go back to N-" Dick self-edited quickly, stopping himself from saying Nightwing, "normal life."

Slade snorted. "Kid, you never had a normal life. You were born a circus brat. You just need to find a new normal."

"He's gotta point. Your sense of normal is pretty warped, and you are a circus brat."

Dick's lips twitched into a small smile. "Well, you're riffraff and a street rat."

"I don't buy that," Jason retorted.

Dick bit his finger to stop from laughing out loud, which would attract unwanted attention from the other occupants of the cell.

"What?" Slade growled.

"The scourge of the underworld just quoted Disney's _Aladdin_."

"You started it."

"You're both brats," Slade said. "So any other symptoms or side-effects still hanging on?"

Dick frowned. "I'm not sure that I should really be telling you anything else."

"Now that I know that there's something to look for, it's just a matter of time before I find out everything anyway," Slade said.

"No wonder you're so popular," Jason muttered. "You're just like Regina George."

"Raise your hand if you've ever been personally victimized by Slade Wilson," Dick said, raising his hand.

Dick felt Jason raise his hand too. "One time he punched me in the face. It was not awesome."

Dick chuckled. "One time, Alfred punched him in the face, and that was definitely awesome."

"Am I ever going to live that down?" Slade grumbled.

"No," both brothers answered simultaneously.


End file.
